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GIFT   OF 


And  This  is  War 


BY 

CARL  HERMON  DUDLEY 


Cochrane  Publishing  Company 

Tribune  Building 

New  York 

1910 


^7^  V- 


^-b 


Copyright,  1910,  by 
GxTHRANE  Publishing  Co. 


•*;. 


u^** 


TO  HER  WHOSE  LIFE  WITH  IMY 
LIFE  RHYMES. 

This  little  book  must  not  go  tremblingly 
forth  voyaging  to  its  unknown  destination 
without  grateful  acknowledgment  being  made 
for  the  help  of  One  who  has  ever  stood  by 
my  side,  who  has  witnessed  the  birth  of  these 
stray  waifs  one  by  one  in  my  soul,  whose 
timely  suggestions  and  help  have  given  them 
first  aid  when  their  feeble  cries  indicated 
that  life  in  them  was  at  low  ebb,  and  who  has 
furnished  all  the  material  for  some  of  their 
stories. 

This  grateful  acknowledgment  I  make  to 
my  wife, 

Louise  Jenkins  Dudley. 

Should  the  rose  on  thy  cheek  ever  fade, 
Bloom  fairer  will  the  garden  of  roses 
Thy  life  in  my  life  hath  made. 

— C.  H.  D. 


lltl 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/andthisiswarOOdudlrich 


**  Great  captains  with  their  guns  and  drums 
Disturb  our  judgments  for   the   hour, 
But  at  last  silence  comes/* 

— Lowell. 


"Truth  embodied  in  a  tale 
Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors, 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave.'* 

— In  Memoriam. 


"Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war.*' 
'^     __  — Shakespeare. 


"War  is  hell.** 

— Gen.  Sherman. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I. 
War's  Alarums. 

Chapter  Page 

I.  Only  Eighteen 11 

II.  Drafted 15 

III.  Twenty-two  and  Nineteen    -         -         -  19 

IV.  Their  Last  Child 22 

PART  II. 
War. 

V.  And  Still  The  Sun  Shone  On       -         -  27 

VI.  Only  A  Common  Soldier            -         -         -  30 

VII.  The  First  Soldier-Funeral      -         -         -  33 

VIII.  Crape  On  The  Door          -         ...  36 

IX.  Don't  Papa  Love  Me    -         -         -         -  39 

X.  The  Crimes  of  Peace  Are  the  Virtues  of  War  43 

XI.  The  Virtues  of  Peace  Are  the  Crimes  of  War  47 

XII.  One  Of  Thousands             .         .         -         -  50 

XIII.  A  Siege,  A  Little  Child,  A  Christian  Woman  52 

XIV.  O  God!  How  Long?          ....  54 

XV.  Why?  Why?  Why?      ...         -  57 

XVI.  Home  In  Two  Weeks        -         -         -         -  61 

XVII.  The  Evening  Before  The  Battle  -         -  63 

XVIII.  The  Waning  Hours  Of  That  Night         -  73 

XIX.  The  Battle 78 

XX.  And  Night  Once  More     -         -         -         -  81 

XXI.  The  After  Days    .         -         -         -         -  87 


CONTENTS— Continued 


PART  III. 

After  the  Wab. 

Chapter 

Page 

XXII. 

The  Home  Coming            -         -         - 

-      95 

XXIII. 

One  Who  Remembered         -         -         - 

99 

XXIV. 

A  Child's  Plaything 

-    101 

XXV. 

An  Old  Soldier 

103 

XXVI. 

The  Little  Cottage  By  The  Wayside 

-    105 

XXVII. 

A  Rose-Colored  Gown            -         -         - 

108 

PART  IV. 
Tms  Picture  and  That. 

XXVIII.  The  Beginning  And  The  End         -        -  115 

XXIX.  A  Home- And  Afterwards  -         -  119 

XXX.  And  Both  Were  Speechless      -         -         -  123 

XXXI.  **  My  Strength  is  as  the  Strength  of  Ten  "  128 


PART  V. 
The  Unknowable.  .     ,     . 

XXXII.  Ten  O'clock  the  Night  Before  the  Battle   -  135 

XXXIII.  And  The  Last  Trump  Sounded  -         -  140 

XXXIV.  The  Dogs  Of  War           -         -        -        -  142 

XXXV.  An  Undiscovered  Country     -         -         -  147 


Part  I. 

WAR'S  ALARUMS 


And  This  is  War 


CHAPTER  I. 

ONLY  EIGHTEEN. 

He  was  only  eighteen,  but  his  country  needed  him, 
and  he  had  answered  her  call.  It  was  the  last  day  he 
was  to  have  at  home — the  home  of  his  childhood.  On 
the  morrow  he  was  to  leave  for  the  army.  He  wanted 
to  be  alone.  He  wanted  to  revisit  each  dear  spot  on  the 
old  farm,  to  say  good-bye  to  each, — for  when  would  he 
see  them  again? 

After  dinner  was  eaten  he  silently  rose  from  the 
table,  took  down  his  hat,  and  passed  out  of  the  house. 
Wistfully  two  pair  of  eyes  followed  his  retreating  figure 
— the  eyes  of  the  mother  who  bore  him  and  of  the 
father  who  begot  him.  The  boy  passed  from  sight. 
They  glanced  at  each  other,  eyes  moistened,  throats  sud- 
denly became  dry:  the  father  went  out  in  silence,  but 
the  mother  sat  still  in  the  house,  gazing  awhile  at  the 
empty  cup  before  her.  Possibly  she  saw  visions  of 
vanished  years.  Possibly  a  curly-headed  child  figured 
in  those  visions. 

The  father  looked  anxiously  in  every  direction,  but 
the  boy  was  not  in  sight. 

He  had  climbed  a  distant  hill  whereon  was  an  oak 
with  limbs  nearly  sweeping  the  ground.  In  its  branches 

11 


i2'<<'''  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

sunny  hours  had  fled  while  he  played  with  brothers 
who  were  now  bearded  men  roaming  afar.  Here  he 
had  built  his  castles  in  the  air.  He  climbs  the  oak  once 
more.  He  gazes  long  on  each  familiar  spot,  and  his 
eyes  linger  caressingly  on  some  which  stirred  tender 
memories. 

Long  he  sat  there,  and  longer  were  his  thoughts.  At 
last  he  descends  from  the  tree ;  he  will  press  again  with 
his  foot  every  place  where  his  baby  feet  have  wandered. 
He  visits  the  orchard,  he  roams  through  the  woods,  he 
sits  on  the  bank  by  the  swimming  pool,  he  tarries  by 
the  sunken  log  where  he  caught  his  first  trout.  He 
thinks  of  the  yesterdays  and  of  the  tomorrows,  and 
something  swells  in  his  throat. 

He  goes  to  the  barn,  caresses  the  horses,  and  says 
good-bye.  He  enters  the  house  and  silently  goes  up 
stairs,  picks  up  a  few  old  toys  and  packs  them  away. 
He  handles  each  lovingly,  and  he  remembers.  To- 
morrow he  leaves  for  the  war.  Ah,  he  never  knew  be- 
fore how  many  heart-strings  bound  him  to  the  old  place 
and  the  old  familiar  scenes.  Familiar  ?  Yes — but  what 
strange  light  is  this  in  which  each  seems  to  swim  this 
long  afternoon? 

It  is  midnight;  the  last  night  has  reached  its  noon. 
The  darkness  is  thick  in  the  home,  but  the  morning  has 
begun — the  morning  that  for  the  boy  should  know  no 
evening  under  his  father's  roof;  the  morning  that  for 
the  parents  ushered  in  an  endless  evening,  till  the 
boy  should  come  back — if  he  ever  would. 

She  was  a  plain  farm  wife  and  mother  and  the  world 
never  heard  her  name:  and  yet  there  were  those  that 
loved  her,    and  she  loved,  too.     She  could  not  sleep. 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  13 

Her  thoughts  were  of  the  boy.  Noiselessly  she  slips 
from  her  husband's  side,  noiselessly  she  enters  the  open 
door  of  the  boy's  chamber.  It  is  in  total  darkness. 
Slowly  she  feels  her  way  to  a  window,  pulls  back  the 
curtain  a  little  ways,  and  a  dim  light  falls  on  the  sleep- 
er's face. 

Long  she  stands  there  hushed  and  awed,  not  a  muscle 
moving.  She  is  all  soul,  and  her  soul  is  all  in  her  eyes, 
and  her  eyes  are  devouring  a  sleeping  face — her  boy's. 
The  sleeper  stirs  a  little.  He  is  dreaming.  ** Mother," 
he  softly  breathes.  A  mother's  heart  stops  beating.  She 
has  become  all  ears,  but  that  one  word  is  all. 

And  the  breakfast  hour  came.  Appetites  were  small. 
Silence  was  king.  A  book  is  taken  from  the  center 
table.  Its  leather  cover  is  rusty  and  worn.  The  bind- 
ing is  falling  to  pieces.  The  leaves  are  tattered  and 
soiled.  On  the  cover  are  some  nearly  illegible  letters, 
once  guilt;  they  spell,  "Holy  Bible."  The  father  opens 
the  book  and  reads.  A  prayer  follows,  and  a  strange 
peace  finds  a  tiny  entrance  into  hearts  packed  with  sad- 
ness. A  team  is  brought  to  the  door.  Quivering  lips 
touch  quivering  lips  and  filmy  eyes  look  into  filmy 
eyes.  Then  father  and  son  ride  away  down  the  dusty 
highway — yes,  ride  away.  And  a  woman  stands  in  the 
door  with  a  hand  shading  her  eyes.  The  team  passes 
out  of  sight,  and  a  woman  turns  back  into  the  house. 

The  father  and  son  slowly  ascend  a  long  hill.  Reach- 
ing its  summit,  before  passing  down  the  other  side,  a 
boy  rises  in  the  wagon,  turns  round  and  takes  a  last 
look  at  the  valley  he  is  leaving  behind.  A  woman  has 
come  to  the  door  once  more ;  she  sees  a  boy  standing  in 
a  distant  wagon  on  a  hill,  and  the  boy  sees  a  woman 


14  AND   THIS  IS  WAR 

standing  in  a  farmhouse  door  down  in  the  valley,  and 
then  he  passes  over  the  hill. 

Father  and  son  do  not  talk,  but  occasionally  each 
takes  a  hasty  sidelong  glance  at  the  other,  and  then 
quickly  turns  his  eyes  to  the  distant,  low-lying,  smoky 
hills. 

They  reach  the  station,  the  train  comes  puffing  in, 
the  father  drives  home  alone. 

Will  the  boy  come  back? 


CHAPTER   II. 

DRAFTED. 

He  was  a  stalwart  man  mentally  and  physically, 
God-fearing  and  true.  Eight  years  before  he  had  mar- 
ried the  lass  across  the  way.  They  had  been  sweet- 
hearts since  childhood.  A  little  home  was  purchased, 
mainly  on  hope  of  future  savings ;  and  to  this  home  the 
joyous  bride  was  brought.  The  little  white  farmhouse 
became  a  Garden  of  Eden.  In  the  six  years  following 
the  bridal  morn,  three  little  faces  stole  into  their  en- 
chanted bower.  And  great  happiness  welled  up  in  the 
husband's  heart  as  he  took  his  rest  at  eventide  under 
his  own  vine  and  fig-tree. 

But  as  the  eighth  year  of  this  unmarred  happiness 
was  tapering  to  its  close,  clouds  of  war  rose  dark  and 
portentous  and  the  whole  land  reeled  under  the  thick 
shadows.  The  call  for  troops  came.  He  was  a  well-read 
man.  intelligent,  courageous,  patriotic.  But  everybody 
prophesied  a  short  war,  so,  though  he  longed  to  bear 
a  part  of  his  country's  burdens,  he  felt  that  as  single 
men  were  plenty  and  eager  to  fight,  he  must  not  desert 
those  God  had  given  him  to  protect. 

But  the  war  dragged  on.  Call  for  men  followed  call, 
until  every  square  mile  of  his  native  land  was  constant- 
ly atremble  with  the  march  of  its  bravest  sons  passing 
from  every  home  to  where  gory  death  held  high,  car- 
nival. His  country's  voice  rang  in  his  ears.  Home  ties 
clutched  at  his  heart.     In  the  night  he  tossed  on  a 

15 


16  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

wakeful  pillow.  He  looked  into  the  calm  face  of  his 
sleeping  bride-wife;  into  three  little  faces  on  which  the 
moonlight  played.  No !  he  could  not,  must  not,  go.  The 
farm  was  still  heavily  mortgaged,  his  oldest  child  but 
seven. 

Battle  after  battle  was  lost.  The  Ruler  and  his  cabi- 
net took  counsel  late  into  the  nights.  The  ranks  that 
faced  the  foe  were  thinning,  the  tramp,  tramp,  tramp 
from  homes  about  him  was  growing  fainter  and  fainter ; 
there  were  fewer  now  to  go  forth — and  those  few  were 
needed  where  they  were.  The  claims  of  home  and  hu- 
manity chained  them  to  their  uneasy  posts.  The  news- 
papers began  darkly  and  mysteriously  to  hint  at  the 
possible  necessity  of  drafting  men  to  fill  the  wasted 
ranks.  Their  tone  grew  more  certain  and  clamorous. 
It  was  done:  the  draft  ordered.  The  father  hid  the 
paper  containing  this  announcement.  That  night  he 
again  looked  long  hours  into  four  peaceful,  sleeping 
faces.  Four  separate  swords  passed  through  his  heart 
and  some  four-handed  monster  had  hold  of  the  four 
hilts  of  those  swords  and  was  remorselessly  sawing  back 
and  forth. 

For  three  days  he  hid  every  paper  that  came  to 
the  house.  His  wife  asked  for  them,  but  evasive  an- 
swers satisfied  her  unsuspecting  love.  The  fourth  day 
when  h6  was  away  in  the  field  at  work,  a  neighbor 
dropped  in  to  chat  and  brought  the  news  of  the  draft. 
The  wife's  face  paled  and  her  lips  tightened,  but  she 
said  little.  When  the  visitor  had  at  last  taken  her  de- 
parture, the  wife  hunted  up  the  missing  papers.  She 
read  them,  and  she  read  her  husband's  nameless  dread. 

That  night  she  spoke  to  him  about  the  matter — and 
four  eyes  in  an  isolated  farm  home  failed  to  close  in 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  17 

sleep.  In  two  little  beds,  through  an  open  door,  three 
little  children  were  sleeping  calmly  on. 

A  week  passed.  The  day  of  the  draft  came.  He 
could  not  wait  at  home.  He  heard  the  names  read  off — 
his  own  among  them. 

After  he  had  left  home  that  morning  a  woman  who 
had  said  good-bye  with  brave  but  white  and  twitching 
face  hurried  three  little  children  outdoors  to  their  play ; 
then  she  collapsed  into  a  chair  and,  with  arms  on  the 
table  and  face  buried  on  her  arms,  her  form  was  shaken 
with  convulsive  sobs,  and  salt  tears  wet  her  face  and 
dress.  In  her  anguish  she  called  upon  God  to  spare 
them  the  impending  blow. 

A  little  child  seven  years  old  heard  a  strange  sound 
and,  leaving  her  play,  came  to  the  door.  What  was  the 
matter  with  mamma?  Scared  and  wondering,  she  noise- 
lessly went  away  and  called  her  sister  next  younger; 
and  the  two  came  to  the  door,  and  there  they  stopped. 
Lens:  they  gazed  with  frisrhtened  faces  upon  that 
shaking,  moaning  form  huddled  by  the  table.  Silently 
they  tiptoed  to  her  side,  and  the  little  eyes  grew  larger 
and  larger,  while  the  little  bodies  are  held  motionless 
with  terror.  A  toddler  of  three,  missing  the  older  chil- 
dren, clambers  up  the  steps,  enters  the  open  door,  and 
patters  noisily  over  the  bare  floor.  The  mother  hbars, 
raises  her  streaming  eyes,  and  through  their  wet  bitter- 
ness looks  into  three  pairs  of  scared,  mystified  child- 
eyes. 

Little  lips  cry  out:  ''Mamma  c'ying!  mamma  c'y- 
ing!  Don't  c'y,  mamma!  Don't  c'y,  mamma!"  And 
three  little  broken  hearts  begin  to  weep.  And  the 
mother  has  to  comfort  them,  yes,  comfort  them. 

A  farmer  is  slowly  driving  home.    A  farmer  ?    Nay ! 


18  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

a  husbana  and  a  father.  He  sees  naught  about  him. 
He  is  thinking.  A  woman  goes  often  to  an  open  door 
and  gazes  longingly,  dreadingly,  up  the  winding  road. 
A  team  comes  into  sight  around  a  turn,  comes  slowly 
on  toward  where  the  woman  waits.  A  man  is  in  that 
wagon.  His  head  is  bowed,  the  lines  have  fallen  from 
his  hands,  but  he  hasn't  noticed  this. 

The  team  draw  near  the  gate.  The  bowed  head  is 
not  lifted.  The  woman  tries  to  steal  out  of  the  house 
unobserved,  but  six  little  eyes  see  her  go,  six  little  ears 
hear  a  team  approaching,  six  little  feet  follow  after 
the  woman.  They  raise  their  eyes,  gleefully  they  lift 
up  their  voices:  *'Papa  coming!  Papa  coming!"  The 
man  is  aroused  from  his  revery.  A  woman  looks  into 
his  eyes  and  he  into  hers.  Strength  goes  from  her 
limbs,  she  totters,  is  falling.  The  man  leaps  from  the 
wagcn  and  catches  her  with  trembling  arms. 

Three  white  little  faces  look  up  into  father's,  and 
father  looks  down  into  three  white  little  faces. 


CHAPTER   III. 

TWENTY-TWO   AND    NINETEEN. 

He  was  twenty-two  and  she  nineteen.  They  had 
been  engaged  only  six  weeks,  and  the  light  of  lights 
still  shone  in  four  eyes  that  knew  nothing  but  the  morn- 
ing. 

War  had  been  declared.  He  loved  as  a  true  man's 
heart  does  love.  Yet  he  had  a  man's  head  and  a  man's 
conscience,  and  he  knew  down  deep  somewhere  in  his 
soul  that  somehow  a  man's  life  belongs  first  to  God  and 
country,  only  afterwards  to  home  and  friends  and 
sweethearts;  and,  lastly,  if  at  all,  to  self. 

At  first  the  voice  of  his  country  seemed  to  pass  him 
by,  or  he  failed  to  hear  it,  absorbed  as  he  was  in  his 
new-born  happiness.  But  that  call  became  louder, 
more  urgent,  more  imperious,  more  distressful.  Yes, 
his  country  needed  men,  must  have  them,  or  she  die. 
He  knew  her  cause  was  the  cause  of  God  and  all  hu- 
manity. Her  voice  pierced  the  joints  of  the  armor  of 
his  happiness.  Conscience  leaped  to  her  feet.  Duty 
shouted  in  his  ears.  His  country's  voice  was  no  longer 
self-confident,  vaunting,  unafraid;  but  the  voice  of 
fear,  of  anguish,  of  desperate,  imperative  need. 

Six  months  ago  he  would  have  greeted  that  call  to 
arms  with  a  shout  of  martial  ardor,  but  now — there  was 
another.  The  old  conflict  broke  out  in  his  soul,  a  con- 
flict which  most  men  know  sooner  or  later,  be  there  war 
or  be  there  peace — how  meet  and  satisfy  the  claims  of 

19 


20  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

God  and  men  and  one^s  work  in  the  world,  and  also  the 
demands  and  expectations  of  those  to  whom  the  heart 
is  pledged? 

He  fought  back  the  hour  of  decision.  He  became 
strangely  quiet  and  pre-occupied  in  her  presence.  Her 
heart  grew  anxious,  and  pain  nestled  down  beside  her 
joy  and  almost  crowded  it  out.  Was  his  love  growing 
cold  already?  Was  he  tiring  of  her?  Did  he  think  he 
had  made  a  mistake? 

At  last  her  breaking  heart  forced  these  questions  to 
her  lips.  Yes,  he  loved  her  better  than  life,  he  declared 
— and  crushed  her  to  his  heart.  Ah,  yes.  he  did  love 
her  then.  But  why  his  silences,  why  his  unhappiness? 
Wouldn't  he  share  his  troubles  with  her? 

For  a  time  he  was  evasive,  but  she  pressed  him  hard. 
At  length,  almost  without  the  consent  or  knowledge  of 
his  will,  there  broke  from  his  lips:  ''The  war,  dearest! 
this  terrible  war — you  know  the  need  of  men — what 
shall  I  do?" 

At  first  she  was  dumfounded;  then  she  turned  upon 
him  in  bitter  reproaches.  Did  he  love  a  uniform  better 
than  he  loved  her?  Was  this  all  he  cared  for  her  after 
all?  Was  this  all  his  vows  of  constancy  amounted  to? 
Let  others  go  to  the  dreadful  war  if  they  wanted  to. 
Why  should  he  desert  her  in  the  moment  of  their  great 
happiness?  Was  this  as  long  as  his  pledges  of  life- 
long devotion  were  to  last? 

They  parted  that  night,  her  eyes  glittering  with 
anger  and  wounded  pride:  his  with  a  dumb  ache  she 
did  not  know  and  could  not  fathom.  He  rode  home, 
torn  with  conflicting  emotions,  with  battling  voices 
shouting  in  his  soul.  Oh,  God,  what  should  he  do? 
Was  not  his  battle  hard  enough  without  the  one  he 
worshiped  throwing  herself  into  the  scales  against  the 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  21 

call  of  duty?    What  should  he  do?  What  should  he  do? 

The  days  came  and  went.  He  toiled  up  the  steep  hill, 
bearing  his  cross.  He  crucified  himself  and  his  love, 
as  thousands  of  other  brave  and  silent  men  had  done 
before  him.    He  enlisted. 

The  night  he  confessed  his  conflict  she  did  not  sleep. 
She  came  to  see  that  he  was  right  and  she  was  wrong ; 
but  at  first  her  anger  waxed,  anger  at  self,  and  so  re- 
sentment against  him  all  the  more  bitter  and  unyield- 
ing. But  her  heart  was  true  and  her  passion  passed. 
He  had  not  come  again.  She  wrote  him  that  he  must 
do  right  and  she  would  honor  him  the  more. 

He  came  to  see  her  the  evening  he  received  her  let- 
ter. On  the  morrow  he  was  to  start  for  the  front.  The 
night  was  warm.  Arm  in  arm  they  strolled  under  the 
trees.  They  talked  of  their  love,  of  their  dreams,  and 
of  the  morrow.  They  looked  up  at  the  silent  stars  and 
the  silent  stars  looked  down — looked  down  into  four 
young  and  tear-stained  eyes  as  the  stars  have  looked 
down  into  such  eyes  since  that  first  morning  when  they 
sang  together,  as  they  will  continue  to  look  down  into 
such  until  the  mantle  of  silence  enfolds  the  dwelling 
place  of  man  forever. 

The  night  waned — and  still  the  lovers  wandered  on 
arm  in  arm,  unheeding  Time's  mad  rush.  Suddenly  a 
shaft  of  light  shot  up  the  sky  in  the  far  East.  Could 
it  be? — yes,  the  morning  was  breaking.  Whither  had 
fled  the  night — whither? 

For  a  moment  hands  cling  to  hands,  lips  cling  to 
lips — then  they  parted.  And  there  be  ''partings  such 
as  press  the  life  from  out  young  hearts.''  He  went  to 
the  front  where  flags  wave,  and  cannon  roar,  and  men 
shout,  and  dare,  and  do,  and  die.  And  she  ?  She  went 
into  the  house  and — waited. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THEIR  LAST  CHILD. 

Both  were  well  past  seventy.  Age  and  sorrow  had 
long  since  bowed  their  forms  and  marred  their  faces. 
They  had  known  a  life  of  toil  and  disappointment.  Four 
of  their  children  were  sleeping  side  by  side.  Only  one 
still  remained  to  them.  He  was  now  forty,  unmarried, 
and  living  at  home:  and  they  leaned  on  him  harder 
and  harder  from  day  to  day. 

Twenty  years  earlier  this  son  was  in  college  looking 
forward  to  a  professional  career,  as  a  boy  of  twenty 
does  look  forward.  He  loved  a  maiden  then  as  fair  as 
the  flowers  of  spring,  loved  her  as  a  boy  of  twenty  does 
love. 

An  older  brother,  the  last  of  the  five  children  save 
himself,  had  chosen  to  keep  the  homestead  and  take 
care  of  **the  old  folks  at  home."    This  brother  died. 

The  boy  of  twenty  had  not  yet  told  the  girl  that  he 
loved  her;  he  never  told  her.  He  packed  up  his  books, 
folded  away  his  ambitions  and  hopes  in  memory's  wind- 
ing sheet.  He  went  home.  He  stayed  home.  His 
broken-hearted  parents  were  comforted  by  his  presence. 
He  never  told  them  that  he  had  loved;  they  never 
guessed  it.  The  girl  married,  he  saw  children  grow  up 
about  her;  they  called  another  man  father. 

The  war  came.  His  parents  never  dreamed  that  its 
gory  voice  could  disturb  the  peace  of  their  little  house- 
hold. Their  son  had  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  call  of  a 
profession ;  to  the  call  of  love,  and  home,  and  ambition. 
He  had  forsaken  all  else  to  cleave  unto  them — and  their 

22 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  23 

hearts  were  at  rest,  their  feet  gently  descending  to  the 
river  *s  brink. 

But  the  nation  was  crying  out  in  its  sore  travail :  the 
son  heard  that  piteous  cry.  A  day  came  when  its  voice 
broke  through  every  barrier  he  had  erected  between 
his  ear  and  his  soul — he  answered  that  cry,  he  enlisted. 
He  rode  back  to  a  weather-beaten  house  on  a  wind- 
swept hill,  where  two  aged  people  were  sitting  by  a 
flickering  fire.  He  went  in  to  tell  them  what  he  had 
done.  It  was  mid-afternoon.  He  gazed  upon  the  scene 
before  him,  then  into  those  aged  eyes,  then  decided  he 
would  wait  till  supper  time  before  telling  them.  He 
left  the  house  to  do  a  piece  of  farm  work;  but  some- 
way the  work  didn't  go  on  very  fast. 

His  mother  called  him  to  supper.  Now  he  was  to  tell 
them.  But  again  he  thought  he  would  wait;  it  would 
be  easier  and  they  would  have  more  time  to  discuss  it 
after  the  chores  were  done.  Someway  he  didn't  eat 
much  nor  talk  much  either.  He  finished  the  chores  and 
returned  to  the  house.  The  father  was  reading  the 
day's  news,  the  mother  serenely  knitting,  and  both  were 
at  peace.  He  would  wait  until  bedtime  before  telling 
them. 

The  father  is  reading  of  the  war's  red  carnage,  of 
the  nation's  terrible  defeat.  He  reads  aloud  an  occa- 
sional sentence,  commenting  as  he  reads.  The  son's 
uphill  task  grows  harder.  The  mother  speaks.  She 
rejoices  that  no  son  of  hers  is  in  that  disastrous,  dead- 
strewn  rout.  She  speaks  of  the  comfort  the  son  is  to 
their  declining  years.  She  speaks  of  the  four  children 
at  rest.  She  magnifies  the  mercy  of  God  in  sparing 
one  child  to  close  their  eyes  at  last,  and  lay  them  be- 
side those  whom  the  Reaper  had  long  since  garnered. 
And  the  son  listens.     He  is  thinking. 


24  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

Suddenly  it  comes  to  the  mother  that  he  is  saying 
nothing,  that  he  has  been  silent  all  the  evening.  She 
raises  her  eyes  and  peers  searchingly  into  his  face.  She 
discovers  it  is  pinched  and  drawn.  "]My  son,  what  is 
it?"  she  cries  out,  feeling  the  cold,  clammy  hand  of 
nameless  dread  icily  clutching  her  heart  to  suffocation. 
''Mother,  I  have  enlisted!"  he  blurts  out. 

A  scream  of  anguish  breaks  from  those  lips  which 
have  just  been  praising  God's  mercy  in  sparing  their 
boy  to  them  in  their  desolate,  wintry  years.  The  paper 
falls  from  the  nerveless  hands  of  the  aged  father.  He 
wrings  those  withered  hands,  rocking  back  and  forth 
in  silence  more  terrible  than  any  words,  his  face  work- 
ing contortedly.  The  son  tries  to  speak,  he  wants  com- 
fort, but  lips  and  tongue  refuse  their  office.  He  rises 
from  his  chair  and  stands  a  moment  looking  at  his 
parents  in  a  helpless  sort  of  way,  his  hands  nervously 
twitching  at  his  side.  Then  he  turns  about  and  steals 
noiselessly  from  the  room  and  up  the  stairs. 

Into  the  far  hours  of  the  night  the  mother  was  still 
weeping.  *' Mother,"  the  tremulous,  shaking  tones 
were  those  of  the  aged  husband  by  her  side,  "you  re- 
member the  Good  Book  says,  'he  spared  not  his  only 
Son.*  Shall  we  keep  back  ours  when  our  country 
needs  him  most?" 

"No,  no,  father!  But  my  gray  hairs  will  go  down 
to  the  grave  in  sorrow." 

"Yes."  responded  the  old  man's  voice,  "but  it 
won't  be  long  now  for  either  of  us." 

"No!"  was  the  answer,  "and  it  is  well.  It  is  better 
so — we  will  see  the  others." 

"Yes,  we'll  see  the  others."  , 

And  God  gave   them  sleep. 


Part  II. 


WAR 


CHAPTER  V. 

AND   STILL   THE   SUN   SHONE   ON. 

He  was  born  and  bred  in  Ohio.  His  parents  were 
New  England  Puritans,  God-fearing,  slavery-hating, 
stalwart  and  fearless.  Their  home  was  one  of  the  main 
stations  on  the  ''underground  railroad."  Many  a 
black  man  had  they  helped  to  reach  the  Canadian  bor- 
der. Never  was  a  slave  turned  away  from  their  door. 
Their  lives  were  ever  in  peril  from  enraged  slavehold- 
ers, for  their  sympathy  with  the  runaway  was  notorious. 
Twice  had  their  outbuildings  been  burned  to  the 
ground,  their  death  threatened  times  without  number. 

When  the  boy  was  only  twelve  there  had  come  fran- 
tically pounding  on  their  door  late  one  night,  when  the 
household  was  all  wrapped  in  deepest  slumber,  a  wild- 
eyed,  torn  and  bleeding  slave,  exhausted  by  his  race 
for  life  and  nearly  starved.  Already  the  baying  of  thei 
remorseless  bloodhounds  in  hot  and  deadly  pursuit 
could  be  heard  in  the  distance,  and  armed  men  were 
galloping  close  behind.  To  shield  the  black  was  to  im- 
peril the  life  of  every  member  of  the  home. 

"Come  in,"  said  the  boy's  father,  "we  cannot  die 
in  a  holier  cause,  if  die  we  must."  The  mother  was 
white  with  terror.  The  children  heard  the  oncoming 
hounds  and  were  screaming  in  an  agony  of  fear.  The 
echoing  hoofbeats  of  hard-running  horses  now  began 
to  chime  in  with  the  frantic  clamor  of  the  dogs.  Food 
was  set  before  the  ravenous  black,  who  bolted  it  like  a 

27 


S8  AND  THIS  is  WAR 

starving  beast,  despite  the  horrors  of  his  situation.  Con- 
cealment was  impossible.  The  father  alone  was  calm. 
What  should  be  done?  They  were  practically  defense- 
less and  evidently  there  were  at  least  half  a  dozen  of 
the  horsemen.  But  there  was  no  time  even  to  plan. 
The  moon  was  poised  serenely  and  unconcerned  in 
midheaven,  her  silvery  light  making  the  night  bright 
enough  to  read  in.  The  aspect  of  nature  was  one  of 
infinite  peace. 

The  father  opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  A 
long,  gaunt,  gigantic  beast  with  lolling  tongue  swung 
in  at  the  gate,  and  with  inhuman  roar  dashed  up  the 
driveway;  three  others  followed  a  few  leaps  behind, 
their  hellish  clamor  stopping  the  very  beating  of  hu- 
man hearts.  Horsemen  followed.  A  volley  of  pistol 
shots  rattled  against  the  house,  smashing  windows  and 
penetrating  doors.  The  father  from  behind  a  pillar 
of  the  porch  hailed  the  huntsmen  of  the  night  and 
begged  the  privilege  of  purchasing  the  freedom  of  their 
prey.  A  volley  of  oaths  and  a  volley  of  lead  answered 
his  appeal,  and  his  right  arm  hung  useless  at  his  side. 
The  men  leaped  from  their  horses  and  smashed  open 
the  doors.  Men  and  dogs  entered  together,  a  motley, 
indiscriminate  mass  of  pitiless  fury.  Too  stupefied 
even  to  try  to  escape,  there  sat  the  cowering  black, 
paralyzed  with  terror.  Screaming  children  in  their 
nightelothes  vainly  tried  to  clamber  up  the  very  walls 
of  the  room. 

Dogs  and  men  sprang  upon  the  fugitive  slave  and 
dragged  him  with  teeth  and  claws  out  into  the  night 
and  en  and  away  to  endless  doom.  And  the  iron  en- 
tered the  soul  of  a  boy  twelve  years  old. 

The  years  rolled  by  and  found  the  boy,  now  a  youth 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  29 

of  twenty,  a  private  in  the  regular  army  of  the  United 
States.  His  regiment  was  located  in  the  far  South- 
west. James  K.  Polk  ordered  the  invasion  of  a^  sister 
republic  with  whom  we  were  at  peace.  Battles  were 
fought  and  won,  and  a  republic  founded  upon  liberty 
and  the  rights  of  man  proceeded  to  steal  half  the  area 
of  a  helpless  neighbor  in  order  that  the  hiss  of  the 
slave-driver's  lash  and  the  baying  of  man-hunting 
dogs  might  mingle  forever  with  the  songs  of  freedom 
and  the  praise  of  God. 

The  boy  knew  the  meaning  of  war  and  his  soul  re- 
volted. Every  victory  deepened  his  anguish.  "What 
could  he  do?  He  was  a  private,  so  he  could  not  re- 
sign from  the  service.  There  was  his  oath  of  loyalty 
and  obedience;  should  he  desert  and  so  commit  per- 
jury? Or  should  he  continue  loyal  to  a  country  whose 
cause  he  believed  rested  under  the  curse  of  Almighty 
God? 

He  recalled  that  night  of  his  childhood  eight  years 
previous.  In  the  silence  of  the  following  night  he  fled 
from  his  post.  He  could  war  against  his  conscience 
no  longer.  He  was  now  a  deserter.  Fifteen  miles  he 
hurr'ed  on  ere  morning  light  overtook  him.  But  the 
hounds  were  on  his  trail.  He  heard  their  voices,  he 
knew  the  message  they  were  heralding. 

The  trial  by  court-martial  was  brief.  The  sentence 
pronounced.  They  stood  him  forth  in  the  presence  of 
his  comrades.  A  shot  rang  out,  a  puff  of  smoke,  a 
crumpled  form,  a  pool  of  blood.  And  still  the  grass 
waved,  and  still  the  birds  twittered  in  the  trees,  and 
still  the  sun  shone  on. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ONLY  A  COMMON  SOLDIER. 

He  and  his  wife  were  driving  into  towTi  that  fore- 
noon as  rapidly  as  their  stolid  work-team  could  go. 
They  were  in  a  nervous  hurry,  for  they  hoped  a  letter 
might  be  there  from  their  son  who  was  away  at  the 
front.  A  battle  had  been  fought  a  few  days  before 
and  no  word  had  they  received  since.  The  previous 
evening  after  his  hard  day's  w^ork  the  father  had 
walked  the  two  miles  to  the  office,  forbearing  to  take 
out  again  his  jaded  team.  No  letter  was  there  and  the 
fears  and  suspense  of  the  home  had  become  almost  un- 
endurable. 

As  soon  as  the  morning's  mail  was  in,  too  impatient 
to  wait  another  moment,  the  father  unhitched  from  the 
plow  and  started  to  town.  The  wife  could  not  wait 
his  return.  She  left  the  preparation  of  the  noon  meal, 
put  on  hat  and  shawl,  and  sprang  into  the  wagon.  No 
word  was  spoken. .  As  they  approached  the  railroad 
crossing,  with  thoughts  far,  far  away,  they  were  near- 
ly dashed  to  death  by  the  fearful  rush  of  a  magnificent 
train  running  off  schedule  time.  They  pulled  up  their 
team  and  swung  their  heads  to  one  side  just  in  time 
to  save  themselves  a  mangled  death. 

That  train  was  the  private  one  of  a  millionaire  mag- 
nate just  returning  from  the  nation's  capital  with  an- 
other fat  contract  for  supplying  the  army  with  meat. 
As  his  splendid  train  shot  across  half  the  continent  he 

30 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  31 

reveled  in  the  thoughts  of  the  millions  he  would  be  able 
to  pile  up,  if  only  the  war  would  last  long  enough. 
Yes,  surely,  it  would  last  some  months  yet.  He  had 
a  few  law-makers  down  at  the  capital  and  he  could 
easily  persuade  them  that  peace  ought  not  to  be  con- 
cluded until  the  nation's  enemies  came  begging  for  it 
on  their  knees.  Yes,  the  war  would  last  some  time  yet, 
thank  God  for  that;  and  meantime  that  contract  nes- 
tled close  to  his  heart.  He  was  happy,  why  shouldn't 
he  be  ?  ]\Iore  millions,  that  he  did  not  need  and  could 
not  spend,  were  coming  his  way. 

The  boy's  parents  reached  the  post-ofBce  without 
mishap,  and  there,  sure  enough,  was  a  letter  in  a  hand- 
writing that  they  loved  so  well.  The  boy  had  been 
in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  but  came  through  unharmed. 
It  was  a  patriotic,  tumultuous,  exulting  boy-letter. 
They  read  it  through  and  through.  They  discussed  its  ev- 
ery phrase.  They  talked  of  the  boy;  they  recalled  little 
incidents  of  his  childhood;  they  repoiced  in  his  hero- 
ism and  willingness  to  die  for  his  country  if  need  be; 
and  they  tried  to  be  as  brave  as  he  in  enduring  the  ter- 
rible suspense  of  separation.  But  now  another  battle 
was  past;  he  was  safe,  and  silently  both  thanked  their 
Maker. 

That  night  after  the  chores  were  done  and  these 
long  married  lovers  were  sitting  on  the  porch  of 
their  little  home  silently  watching  the  sunset,  but  think- 
ing all  the  while  of  their  boy,  the  father  spoke: 
"Mother,  have  you  the  boy's  letter?" 

**Why,  yes,  I  think  so,  somewhere,"  and  as  though 
half  ashamed  to  have  even  her  husband  discover  her 
great  love,  she  took  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  the  al- 
ready well-thumbed  letter. 


32  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

''Read  it  again,  please,**  said  the  father.  And  the 
mother  read  once  more  a  letter  which  each  already 
knew  by  heart. 

*'So  he  is  safe  and  sound  still,  praise  God,**  said  the 
father,  when  the  reading  was  done. 

**Yes,**  said  the  mother,  *'he  is  a  brave  boy,  ready 
to  die  for  his  country,  but  I  believe  God  will  bring  him 
back  safe." 

In  that  same  hour  in  a  distant  c:ty  a  mighty  con- 
tractor was  reading  again  his  Bible,  that  is,  his  con- 
tract; and  he  rubbed  his  podgy  hands  together  as  he 
lovingly  caressed  that  document  with  his  eyes,  for  he 
already  felt  the  yellow  gold  kissing  his  passionate  fin- 
gers. And  he  laughed  low  and  long  as  he  thought  how 
he  had  tapped  the  government  till  once  more;  and  he 
calculated  rapidly  the  number  of  ''common  people" 
whose  paltry  taxes  would  be  necessary  to  swell  the 
golden  stream  that  must  flow  into  his  already  plethoric 
vaults  as  a  result  of  this  new  deal.  Yes,  he  was  sure 
the  war  would  last  some  months  yet.  And  as  those  par- 
ents looking  into  the  face  of  the  setting  sun  had  thanked 
their  God  for  the  safety  of  their  boy,  so  he  thanked  his 
for  the  war's  bounteous  harvest. 

That  same  night  in  a  far  island  under  an  alien  sky,  a 
^oy?  joyously  willing  to  bare  his  breast  to  the  bullet's 
worst,  languished  out  his  life  like  a  poisoned  rat  in  a 
hole.  When  the  scalding  sun  rose  once  more  and  the 
call-  to  4inna:.. sounded,  the  boy  did  not  answer.-  He 
never  answered  again.  The  magnate  had  had  an  earlier 
contract. 

Quenchless  tears  flowed  in  one  home,  quenchless  gold 
flowed  into  the  other.  But,  after  all,  he  was  only  a 
"common  soldier." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   FIRST  SOLDIER-FUNERAL. 

The  bells  were  tolling.  The  streets  were  closeted. 
Business  had  ceased.  Traffic  was  at  a  standstill.  The 
silence  was  more  profound  than  that  of  a  Sabbath  day 
in  the  country  where  you  used  to  live  when  a  child.  A 
pall  of  gloom  had  fallen  like  an  enshrouding  mantle 
over  the  entire  village.  The  awe  could  be  felt  like  a 
tangible  thing.  People  met  with  averted  faces.  If  per- 
chance they  spoke,  it  was  in  hushed,  almost  sepulchral 
tones. 

"What  had  happened?  The  first  soldier  boy  from 
that  community  had  been  brought  back  from  the  battle- 
field— dead.  The  day  of  his  funeral  had  come.  Flags 
were  half-masted.  Every  store  and  business  place  was 
closed.  Every  farm  and  garden  were  at  rest.  No 
sound  of  toil  could  be  heard.  The  symbols  of  mourn- 
ing were  everywhere  displayed. 

The  sorrow  was  as  though  the  first-born  lay  dead  in 
every  home.  A  feeling  of  appalling  tragedy  was  as 
pervasive  as  though  the  first  citizen  of  the  village  had 
been  wantonly  assassinated  in  the  public  square.  The 
solemnity  was  as  though  the  body  of  a  martyred  Presi- 
dent were  lying  in  state  in  their  -midst.  There  was, 
too,  an  exaltation  as  though  immortal  distinction  had 
been  conferred  upon  the  entire  community;  All  wept 
that  day  with  those  who  wept.    All  felt,  from  the  oldest 

33 


34  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

to  the  youngest,  from  the  richest  to  the  poorest,  from 
nearest  relative  to  most  distant  acquaintance,  as  though 
they  had  sustained  a  personal  bereavement. 

Nay,  more,  each  felt,  from  the  most  exalted  citizen 
to  the  humblest,  as  though  he  himself  had  had  a  per- 
sonal share  in  a  glorious  martyrdom  and  thereby  had 
been  uplifted  and  consecrated. 

Never  in  the  history  of  the  township  had  such  crowds 
attended  a  funeral,  not  even  when  the  body  of  the  ex- 
Governor  of  a  distant  State  had  been  brought  back  for 
burial  with  his  kindred  dead  in  this  the  village  of  his 
childhood.  The  old  church,  spacious  as  it  was,  could 
not  begin  to  admit  the  eager  throngs.  Every  house 
poured  out  its  every  inmate  from  babe  at  the  breast  to 
tottering  age.  Farmers  came  in  droves  from  miles 
around. 

Never  had  the  old  white-haired  pastor  been  so  elo- 
quent. Those  who  had  sat  under  his  preaching  for  well 
on  toward  forty  years  stared  agape  this  day  as  they 
listened  to  his  thrilling  eloquence.  His  diction  was  su- 
perb yet  perfectly  simple,  and  as  limpid  and  crystal  as 
the  waters  of  a  mountain  spring.  His  voice  rang  out 
clear  and  strong.  His  tones  electrified.  His  face 
glowed  with  unwonted  beauty  and  ardor. 

Yes,  it  was  the  greatest,  the  saddest,  the  most  exalted 
day  that  village  had  ever  known. 

But  the  war  dragged  oa,  six  months,  a  year,  two 
years; — and  still  the  end  was  not  yet.  All  thi&tiine  the 
lines  of  the  contending  hosts  were  scarce  a  hundred 
miles  away.  The  stream  of  dead  flowed  itom  these  bat- 
tlefields to  the  little  berg  as  steadily  as  the  waters  of  a 
river  to  the  sea — summer  and  winter,  winter  and 
summer. 


•     AND  THIS  IS  WAR  35 

There  was  a  day,  it  was  now  long  past,  when  all  wept 
with  those  who  wept.  Now  no  one  had  a  tear  for  an- 
other's sorrow.  No  one  had  a  tear  for  his  own  sorrow. 
The  fount  of  tears  was  dry.  In  the  village  cemetery 
there  was  a  fresh  grave  in  every  family  plot;  on  every 
heart  the  crape  was  hanging,  and  the  hearse  was  com- 
moner than  the  milk-cart. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

CRAPE  ON  THE  DOOR. 

He  was  marching  under  a  broiling  Southern  sun.  She 
was  in  the  far  Northland.  Ten  years  before,  in  the 
flush  rf  youth  find  joy  and  hope,  they  had  stood  side 
by  side  and  hand  in  hand  and  repeated  with  tremulous 
ecsta-y  the  solemn  words — "in  sickness  and  in  health, 
till  d^ath  us  do  part.*' 

For  ten  swift  love-lit  years  no  shadow  had  fallen 
across  the  garden  of  their  joy.  Ten  arrowy  years  of 
honeymoon,  ten  arrowy  years  of  youth  and  joy  and 
hope,  ten  arrowy  years  of  tremulous  ecstasy — these 
they  had  known.  Her  face  was  as  youthful  and  fair 
to  him  when  those  years  had  flown  as  when  they  first 
stooped  at  the  marriage  altar  to  unfurl  their  wings  for 
life's  flight  together.  His  form  was  as  superb  and  his 
honor  as  bright  and  his  love  as  unswerving  in  her  sight 
as  on  the  day  when  she  slowly  repeated  the  words, 
"From  this  day  forward,  for  better  for  worse,  for 
richer  for  poorer,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  to  love, 
cherish  and  to  obey.** 

She  had  known  one  long  illness.  He  never  left  her 
side  day  nor  night.  He  held  her  hand  in  the  night 
watches,  he  looked  into  her  eyes  and  she  into  his.  lov- 
ers* eyes  both,  and  she  forgot  her  pain.  Slowly  she 
convalesced.  He  took  her  to  the  sunny  South,  to  far 
islands,  to  foreign  climes.  The  rose  bloomed  anew  on 
her  cheek.    Roses  bloomed  anew  in  both  their  hearts. 

36 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  37 

Ten  years  came  and  went,  and  never  a  twenty-four 
hours  that  eyes  did  not  look  love  to  eyes  that  spake 
again. 

Ten  years  had  come  and  gone,  and  now  he  was 
marching  under  a  broiling  Southern  sun.  She  was  in 
the  far  Northland.  He  slept  on  the  hard  ground,  un- 
der the  stars,  under  the  clouds,  in  the  snow,  in  the  rain. 
And  she  ?  She  slept  not  at  all.  ' '  Oh,  my  lonely,  lonely, 
lonely  pillow!"  Yes,  ten  years  had  flown  and  war's 
raucous  voice  had  wrenched  asunder  those  whom  God 
had  joined  together. 

At  first  her  letters  had  been  long  and  brave,  pitifully 
brave.  They  grew  shorter.  The  handwriting  began  to 
look  different  someway,  feebler  as  it  were.  Anxious  in- 
quiry followed  anxious  inquiry:  was  she  well?  Yes, 
she  was  well,  so  she  wrote.  But  was  she?  Look  at  her 
face — the  roses  have  withered.  Look  at  her  hands — 
her  white,  shrunken  hands.  How  large  the  veins  are. 
Watch  her  walk — is  there  a  ball  and  chain  dragging 
behind?  Yes,  but  no  one  can  see  them — and  no  Samson 
could  drag  them  long. 

She  stops  taking  her  daily  walk.  That  ball  is  grow- 
ing larger,  that  chain  longer,  heavier,  and  harder  to 
drag.  A  letter  in  a  strange  hand  reaches  him.  Try- 
ing to  open  it,  he  tore  the  letter  in  two  as  well  as  the 
envelope.  Ve  asks  his  messmate  to  read  it  for  him. 
They  bend  low  by  the  flickering  camp-fire.  The  letter 
is  brief:  ''Sir:  I  am  writing  this  unbeknown  to  your 
wife.  In  fact,  she  strictly  forbade  me  writing  at  all. 
But  she  was  unable  to  do  so  today  and  it  is  worrying 
her.  It  may  be  some  time  before  she  is  able  to  write 
again." 

He  held  the  letter  before  his  eyes  all  niglit  long,  but 


38  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

he  did  not  read  it  again:  he  couldn't;  something  was 
the  matter  with  his  eyes.  Could  he  get  a  furlough  ?  He 
dare  not  ask,  a  great  battle  was  only,  a  week  off.  Should 
he  desert?  No,  that  would  cut  off  all  hope.  There  had 
been  several  desertions  of  late  and  so  vigilance  had 
been  trebled,  detection  would  be  almost  certain,  and 
detection  spelt  death.  He  must  wait  until  after  the 
battle,  wait  a  week,  and  his  wife  perhaps  even  now  dy- 
ing.    Wait?  Could  mortal  man  wait  in  such  an  hour? 

Sixty  seconds. in  a  minute,  sixty  minutes  in  an  hour, 
twenty-four  hours  in  a  day,  seven  days  in  a  week, 
604,800  seconds  in  seven  days,  604,800  separate  eterni- 
ties in  seven  days.  His  comrades  thought  he  seemed 
rather  queer  after  that  night  the  letter  came. 

The  battle  was  fought,  he  was  unhurt,  secured  his 
furlough,  and  started  North.  Reaching  the  last  sta- 
tion he  rushed  to  the  nearest  livery.  There  was  not  a 
saddle  to  be  had.  He  hired  the  fastest  carriage  horse, 
mounted  bareback,  and  spurred  into  a  run  before  he 
was  through  the  barndoor.  Farmers  stopped  work  in 
the  field  as  a  foam-flecked  horse  shot  past  in  a  storm 
of  dust.  He  whirled  in  at  the  gate,  his  staggering  beast 
reeling  with  a  broken  blood-vessel.  The  blinds  were 
closed.    Crape  hung  from  the  door. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

'  ■  don't  papa  love  me? 

Among  his  business  associates  he  was  known  as  a 
rather  hard  man.  And,  in  truth,  while  strictly  honest, 
he  was  remorselessly  exacting.  One  who  knew  him  only 
in  his  relations  outside  the  home  would  have  described 
him  as  a  cold,  passionless,  unfeeling  man.  And  this 
description  of  him  was  correct  as  far  as  the  world  had 
an  opportunity  to  judge. 

But  there  was  another  side  to  his  nature  and  that 
was  tenderness  to  children.  He  had  begun  poor,  amassed 
some  property,  married,  and  then  labored  all  the  harder 
to  gather  a  fortune  for  the  children  he  hoped  would 
bless  his  home.  Ten  years  he  waited.  Disappointment 
followed  disappointment  year  after  year.  The  tender- 
ness of  his  heart  was  turning  to  gall  in  the  bitterness  of 
his  unrealized  hopes.  Meanwhile  his  fortune  piled  up; 
but  the  higher  it  piled  the  less  he  cared  for  it,  for 
whose  should  it  be  after  him? 

He  was  beginning  to  hate  his  wealth,  it  seemed  like 
a  marble  memorial  of  his  dead  hopes.  He  grew  mo- 
rose, and  his  friends  grew  fewer. 

Ten  years  passed,  and  then  a  baby  voice  was  heard  in 
his  home,  that  of  a  little  girl,  and  the  man  was  trans- 
formed, born  anew.  She  was  the  pearl  of  great  price  to 
him.  Pearl  should  be  her  name,  and  a  pearl  she  was. 
She  was  a  jewel  of  indescribable  beauty,  of  artless  grace 
and  charm.     Her  hair    was  gold,  her  eyes  were  dia- 

39 


40  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

monds,  her  teeth  were  pearls,  her  lips  were  rubies — so 
her  father  thought. 

In  the  nursery  he  was  an  older  brother  to  his  child ; 
nay  more,  he  was  a  child  her  own  age.  He  played  all 
her  little  games,  and  it  was  a  question  whose  laugh  was 
the  merriest,  whose  shout  the  loudest,  whose  eyes  danced 
most. 

The  war  came  and  he  went.  Ruthless  as  he  seemed  in 
business,  he  was  yet  honest  and  upright.  His  veins 
were  full  of  Puritan  blood  and  he  believed  in  duty;  he 
believed  her  voice  was  the  voice  of  God,  that  her  sum- 
mons must  be  obeyed.    And  so  he  tramped  away. 

The  child  clung  to  him  as  he  stood  in  the  ranks  of  his 
company  just  before  boarding  the  train.  In  her  sobs 
she  moaned:  "Don't  papa  love  me?  Why  papa  leave 
me?  Why  leave  his  little  Pearl?  Take  me,  too,  papa. 
Papa  need  his  little  Pearl." 

He  boarded  the  train.  About  a  mother's  neck  clung 
a  sobbing  child.  "Don't  papa  love  me?  Why  leave 
his  Pearl  when  he  goes  away?" 

I\Ionths  passed,  two  years  passed,  and  papa  had  not 
come  back.  Not  a  day  that  the  child  did  not  repeat  her 
question  a  dozen  times  to  a  desolate-hearted  wife  and 
mother.  It  was  the  last  question  asked  and  answered 
each  night  as  little  Pearl  wept  herself  to  sleep.  Two 
years  passed  and  the  flowers  were  blooming  once  more, 
but  Pearl  was  fading.  On  a  summer's  day  she  fell  ill. 
Every  hour  she  besought  the  distracted  mother  to  write 
papa  to  come  home.  The  mother  had  never  written  him 
of  Pearl's  ceaseless  question;  she  had  kept  all  those  dag- 
gers sticking  in  her  own  bosom ;  but  now,  at  last,  there 
was  no  room  for  another.  Pearl  begged  for  a  scrap  of 
paper  and  a  pencil.     They  were  given  her.    And  this 


AND  THIS  IS  WAH  41 

is  the  message  her  shaky  little  white  hand  spelled  out  in 
sprawling  capitals: 

D  EAR  P  APA  YOUR  PEAR  L  IS  VERY  SI  CK 
WHY  DONT  YOU  C  OM  E  TO  HER  SHE  COMB 
TOPAPA  PAPA  SICK  DONT  PAPA 
L  0  VE  ME  YOUR  L  I  TTLE  P  EARL 

She  handed  the  tear-stained  paper  to  her  mother. 
Her  mother  read  it — after  awhile.  She  said  to  herself 
she  must  not  send  it.  The  father's  load  was  too  heavy 
already. 

But  the  child  piteously  begged  and  she  promised.  Her 
own  heart  piteously  begged  too — possibly,  possibly  he 
could  come  for  a  few  days.  She  hurriedly  sealed  the 
letter  and  then  rushed  bare-headed  to  the  office  to  mail 
it.  rushed  to  do  this  lest  her  heart  misgive  her  and  she 
take  out  the  crumpled  little  note  for  her  husband's 
sake.  The  letter  reached  its  destination.  The  father 
read  it.  Long  he  sat  still,  stony-eyed  and  stony-hearted. 
At  last  he  got  up,  and,  staggering  under  some  invisible 
weight  that  seemed  to  have  climbed  up  onto  his  bowed 
shoulders,  he  sought  out  his  General's  tent.  With  dry 
eye,  dry  throat,  shaking  hand,  and  silent  lip,  he  handed 
to  the  General  the  letters  of  his  wife  and  child. 

The  General  reed  the  two  and  tears  rolled  down  his 
bronzed  face.  Silently  he  drew  from  his  own  breast  a 
much-thumbed  letter  in  a  woman's  handwriting.  Si- 
lently he  handed  it  to  the  waiting  private.  The  latter 
read  it  through:  that  very  day  was  the  funeral  of  the 
General's  only  child.  The  men  looked  into  each  oth- 
er's eyes.  ''Our  country  needs  us."  It  was  the  Gen- 
eral who  spoke.  These  were  the  first  words  either  had 
uttered,  and  they  were  the  last.  Silently  and  by  a  com- 
mon impulse  two  hands  were  extended.    For  a  moment 


42  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

those  two  hands  clung  together,  then  fell  limp  at  their 
owners*  sides.    They  parted. 

Unheedful  of  this  scene,  the  demon,  War,  followed 
along  on  its  slow,  bloody  trail.  Two  men  turned  back 
to  their  tasks. 

In  a  peaceful,  sunlit.  Northern  vale,  a  woman  in 
black  followed  a  hearse,  alone.  Alone  she  stood  by  a 
cliild's  grave.  Alone  she  went  back  to  an  empty  house. 
Alone  she  lay  down  at  night  by  a  forsaken  pillow. 

Didn^t  papa  love  his  little  Pearl?  Yes,  but  he  had 
more  sacred  work  to  do  than  to  hold  the  hand  of  his  dy- 
ing qhild — he  was  away  killing  other  little  girls'  papas. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  CRIMES  OP  PEACE  ARE  THE   VIRTUES  OP  WAR. 

He  was  proud  of  his  splendid  mansion,  and  well  he 
might  be.  It  was  of  the  purest  type  of  Colonial  archi- 
tecture, large,  massive,  simple.  For  two  hundred  years 
it  had  been  famous  for  its  hospitality  even  in  that  re- 
gion of  unbounded  hospitality. 

Colonial  Governors,  Presidents,  great  Generals,  Ad- 
mirals, and  Judges  had  shared  its  welcome  and  been 
charmed  by  its  hosts  and  hostesses  for  generations  past. 
The  names  of  its  owners  were  inwoven  with  every  great 
event  of  national  history;  they  wore  the  laurels  among 
the  mightiest  of  the  living  and  dead. 

Yes,  he  was  proud  of  his  historic  name.  But  prouder 
still  was  he  of  the  mistress  who  now  dispensed  its  gen- 
erous hospitality,  and  of  the  sun-kissed  Southern 
beauty,  his  only  daughter,  who  now  lent  added  grace 
and  splendor  to  its  stately  halls ;  and  of  the  three  sons 
who  gave  promise  of  more  than  keeping  good  the  fam- 
ily 's  proud  record  of  high  deeds  and  stainless  honor. 

When  the  tocsin  of  fratricidal  strife  rang  chill  and 
menacing  up  and  down  that  startled  valley,  he  and  his 
three  boys,  like  other  loyal  sons  of  the  Old  Dominion 
who  loved  the  nation  not  less  but  their  State  more, 
shouldered  their  muskets  and  took  their  places  in  the 
ranks. 

That  fertile  historic  valley  now  became  the  scene  of 
hostilities,  the  battleground  of  hundreds  of  thousands 

43  -■■■'•■■•■■ 


44  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

of  armed  men.  Its  fair  fields  shuddered  neath  the 
tramp  of  contending  hosts  day  and  night,  and  the  roar 
of  cannon  was  seldom  hushed.  He  pleaded  with  his 
wife  and  daughter  to  take  shelter  with  relatives  in  the 
far  South.  They  refused.  They  said  their  honor  was 
sufficient  shield  against  the  most  ruthless  soldiery,  and 
was  it  not  necessary  for  them  to  protect  the  remnant  of 
the  family  estate,  lest  the  close  of  the  war  find  them 
penniless?  Husband  and  sons  were  bearing  their  part 
of  war's  horrors;  should  Southern  wife  and  daughter  be 
less  brave  1  And  so  they  stayed  where  war 's  red  voice 
was  ever  gleefully  shouting  forth  the  census  of  his  vic- 
tims. 

The  marvelous  fertility  of  the  valley  and  its  latent 
recuperative  energy  made  it  the  granary  of  supplies 
for  menacing  legions.  The  order  went  out  from  the 
iron  commander  of  the  countless  swarms  of  their  foes 
that  the  valley  should  be  swept  clean  by  fire  and  sword 
and  pillage.  A  force  was  despatched  to  execute  the  or- 
der. An  opposing  force  was  detached  to  defend  the 
peaceful  homes  therein. 

Alrepdy  the  war  had  long  been  raging.  The  three 
sons  had  long  since  ceased  to  answer  the  roll-call.  The 
husband  and  father  alone  survived.  He  was  now  in  the 
div'sion  sent  to  protect  the  valley.  The  encounter  took 
place  within  sight  of  his  own  home.  All  horses  ard  cat- 
tle of  every  description  were  being  seized  and  driven 
away  by  the  enemy.  Every  home  in  sight  wfis  in  flames 
— his  own  among  the  rest.  His  wife — his  daughter — 
the  pillaging,  ravishing  soldiery — great  God!  what 
wonld  become  of  them?  He  tried  to  go  to  the  rescue,  to 
learn  the  worst;  but  a  wall  of  steel  and  sheets  of  fl^me 
and  maneled  bodies  and  dying  horses  and  seas  of  blood 
intervened. 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  45 

Frantically,  insanely,  demon-like,  he  fought  and 
raged.  What  man  could  do  he  did.  What  man  could  not 
do  he  did  in  that  hour  of  his  desperation.  But  the  host 
of  hell  itself  could  not  have  broken  through  that  cordon 
of  hell's  own  allies.  All  that  sunbaked  afternoon  the 
maddened  hosts  clutched  at  each  other's  throats  and 
felt  for  each  other's  hearts  with  fingers  of  iron.  With 
the  goi'^g  down  of  the  sun  went  down  also  the  smoking 
ruins  of  every  home  in  sight,  homes  which,  when  the  sun 
rose  that  fair  morning,  were  rich  in  associations  that 
make  human  hearts  rich. 

With  the  oncoming  darkness  came  on  also  clouds  and 
rain,  blinding  rain,  and  reverberating  thunder  that 
rolled  and  rolled  among  the  hills.  The  lurid  flashes 
would  for  a  moment  annihilate  the  inky  pall  of  night 
and  cloud,  while  their  weird,  ghostly  light  revealed  the 
naked  desolation  man's  handiwork  had  wrought — smok- 
ing hulks  once  homes,  once  the  shrines  of  purest  love, 
noblest  chivalry,  most  generous  courtesy. 

Supperless  the  exhausted  soldiers  sank  down  to 
dreamless  sleep  on  their  gory  arms  on  the  sodden  field 
of  combat.  Under  cover  of  darkness  the  now  sonless 
father  stole  like  a  hunted  beast  to  his  ruined  halls.  But 
his  proud  ancestral  home — that  was  nothing.  His  wife, 
his  child — where  were  they? 

As  he  drew  near  a  low  moan  smote  his  ears,  a  moan 
such  as  he  did  not  know  could  break  from  mortal  heart 
and  lips.  A  flash  of  lightning — ^his  daughter's  huddled 
form  was  seen  on  a  stone,  thinly  clad,  the  drenching 
rain  pouring  down  her  disheveled  locks. 

''My  daughter,"  he  shrieked.  Startled,  she  leaped 
to  her  feet  to  flee;  another  flash  of  light,  another  call, 
and  she  sprang  to  his  arms.  "Are  you  safe?  Are  you 
unharmed?"  he  cried  in  frenzied  tones. 


46  AND  THIS  IS  WAB 

**Yes,  but  mother!'*  was  all  she  could  answer. 

When  the  home  was  fired  the  daughter  was  away. 
She  had  later  fled  to  the  woods  in  terror  and  there  re- 
mained hidden  till  loving  darkness  came  to  caress  her 
cowering  form.  Then  she  had  stumbled  back  to  the 
Stone  where  her  father  discovered  her  crouching  figure. 
Mother — where  was  she  ?  Father — where  was  he  ?  These 
had  been  the  cries  of  her  soul.  The  father  had  come, 
but  the  mother?  Silently  they  went  near  the  ruined 
pile  before  them,  stumbling  in  the  darkness.  The 
mother  had  long  been  wasted  with  heart  disease — was 
she?  Gropingly  the  father  picked  up  a  stick.  The 
rain  had  extinguished  the  last  vestiges  of  the  fire. 
Blindly  he  poked  about  among  the  ruins.  His  stick 
struck  something  soft  and  yielding.  He  stooped  in 
the  darkness,  fumbled  around  with  his  fingers,  and 
picked  up  a  fragment  of  something. 

A  flash  of  lightning.  He  was  holding  a  charred  hand 
in  his.  On  one  of  the  fingers  was  a  wedding-ring,  a 
ring  he  himself  had  put  on  that  finger  in  the  long  ago. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  VIRTUES  OF  PEACE   ARE  THE  CRIMES  OP  WAR. 

The  white-haired  old  Quaker  and  his  aged  wife  had 
just  finished  their  evening  meal.  For  fifty  years  they 
had  lived  in  that  home  and  dwelt  at  peace  with  God 
and  man.  Far  and  near  they  were  known  as  the 
** friends  of  God.*'  Not  less  were  they  the  friends  of 
men.  The  needy  and  the  sorrowing  ever  sought  their 
door  and  none  ever  left  empty-handed  or  empty-heart- 
ed. No  children  had  ever  blessed  their  hungering  love, 
and  so  they  became  father  and  mother  to  all  the 
troubled. 

A  few  days  before  this  quiet  evening  meal,  a  cavalry 
raid  had  been  made  and  a  railroad  cut  scarcely  twenty 
miles  away.  The  raiding  party  had  been  overtaken  and 
dispersed  and  many  killed.  The  Colonel  who  led  the 
force  had  escaped  and  was  now  a  hunted  fugitive  with 
a  price  on  his  head.  All  the  countryside  had  been 
warned  against  giving  the  enemy  aid  or  comfort.  Every 
home  was  in  a  state  of  tense  excitement.  There  was  but 
one  topic  of  conversation  at  store  or  fiireside, 
.  The  eveiiing  nieal  was  finished.  A  great  peacefulness 
of-  t^uiet,  as  of  a;  •  sum'mer's' .  evfening  in'  the  'cbuntry , 
gently  caressed  the  vi^eclad  cottage  of  these  white- 
haired  children  of  God.       ! 

Suddenly  pounding  hoof  beats  broke  the  solemn  still- 
ness of  the  hour.  A  jaded  horse  reeled  in  at  the  gate. 
A  foam-spattered  youth  in  a  Colonel's  uniform  rushed 

47 


48  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

into  the  house  through  on  open  door.  His  face  wore  a 
hunted,  sleep-starved,  hunger-bitten  look. 

''Quick!"  he  cried,  "give  me  a  morsel  to  eat!  I*m 
starving!  Then  hide  me  for  God's  sake  or  I  am  a  dead 
man!" 

The  old  man  hesitated  for  a  moment.  For  the  first 
time  in  her  life  his  wife  suspected  him  of  fear,  and  she 
spurned  the  thought  as  something  that  would  shake  the 
very  pillars  of  her  wifely  love  and  loyalty. 

**Art  thou  afraid?"  she  almost  hissed.  He  turned 
on  her  with  a  look  of  fathomless  pathos. 

' '  Yes,  for  thee ! "  he  quietly  made  answer.  * '  It  means 
death!" 

A  look  of  angelic  tenderness  lit  up  a  saintly  face. 
**Ah,"  said  the  wife  in  low  tones,  ''I  see."  How  she 
loathed  her  momentary  doubt.  "If  thine  enemy  hunger, 
feed  him,"  she  solemnly  quoted.  "Shall  man's  law 
forbid?  I  will  give  thee  to  eat."  And  so  the  enemy 
was  given  aid  and  comfort. 

Hastily  devouring  the  remnants  left  on  the  table,  the 
fugitive  then  begged  for  a  change  of  clothes  and  a 
fresh  horse.  "Who  says  thee  nay?"  spoke  the  wife.  An 
instant  later  a  youth  in  strange  garb  galloped  away 
into  the  night  on  a  fresh  horse,  away  to  life  and  safety. 

The  discarded  uniform  was  forgotten.  In  the  dead  of 
night  a  squad  of  cavalry  burst  in  at  the  gate,  broke 
down  the  doors  of  the  home,  and  searched  every  room. 
They  found  that  grey  uniform,  and  an  aged  couple 
were  haled  to  prison.  The  husband  only  was  put  on 
trial.     Full  confession  was  made. 

"Prisoner  at  the  bar,  have  you  any  statement  to 
make?" 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  49 

The  accused  sat  silent.  The  trembling  old  wife  tot- 
teringly  rose  to  her  feet. 

**It  was  I  who  fed  him/'  she  cried;  "I  who  gave  him 
aid  and  comfort;  upon  my  head  rest  the  penalty — 'if 
thine  enemy  hunger,  feed  him.*  '* 

She  sat  down.  Silence  sat  heavy  on  every  listener. 
Awe  clutched  every  heart. 

But  it  was  a  rnilitary  trial.  War  was  raging.  An 
enemy  had  been  aided  to  escape.  The  wife  was  ordered 
from  the  room.     The  death  sentence  was  pronounced. 

A  last  interview  was  granted  the  couple. 

"Be  brave/'  said  the  wife. 

"I  regret  nothing,"  responded  the  husband. 
**  Whether  we  ought  to  obey  men  rather  than  God,  let 
man  judge.  But  we?  We  have  obeyed,"  he  concluded. 
*' Thank  God,"  fervently  responded  the  wife. 

"Yes,  thank  God!"  echoed  the  husband.  Not  a  tear 
was  shed,  not  a  cheek  blanched,  not  a  lip  quivered.  But 
there  was  a  light  not  of  earth  in  four  eyes  that  saw 
across  a  dark  river  a  shining  city. 

The  soldiers  who  witnessed  that  parting  scene  said 
afterwards  that  they  had  rather  charge  the  cannon's 
mouth  over  a  dead-strewn  field  than  go  through  such 
an  ordeal  again. 

And  so  the  bullets  sang  out,  and  the  old  Quaker's  soul 
returned  to  the  God  who  gave  it. 

But  who  pities  him?  He  deserved  his  fate.  He  had 
been  guilty  of  an  unpardonable  crime — he  had  obeyed 
the  second  great  commandment  of  the  Son  of  God — 
"loved  his  neighbor  as  himself." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

ONE   OP   THOUSANDS. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  sun  was  hastening 
to  its  rest.  But  still  her  body  was  bent  low  over  the 
washtub.  The  sun's  rest  would  bring  no  rest  to  her. 
Far  on  into  the  night  she  must  toil.  Far  on  into  the 
years  she  must  toil.  The  future  held  out  no  promises 
to  her.  The  past  was  a  little  better — a  little:  it  was 
rainbow-tinted  blackness.  And  yet  she  thanked  God 
for  those  shadowed  tints. 

Her  husband — where  was  he?  Yes,  where  was  he? 
That  was  the  passionate  cry  of  her  heart  day  and  night. 
If  only  his  body  could  have  been  identified,  if  only  he 
could  have  d^'ed  at  home,  if  only  she  could  have  the  sol- 
emn joy  of  knowing  that  some  day  she  would  sleep  be- 
side him.  But  this  could  never  be.  Where  was  he? 
Where  his  dead  body  resting?  Nay,  not  resting,  but 
where  lying?  Only  the  resurrection  would  make  an- 
swer. How  would  she  find  him  in  that  hour?  They 
could  not  sleep  together  beneath  the  flowers,  they  could 
not  rise  together.    0  God,  it  was  too  awful ! 

He  had  been  thrown  into  the  trenches  among  the 
"unknown  dead,*'  after  that  blundering  slaughter 
called  a  battle — thrown  into  the  trenches  like  any  other 
carrion.  ** Unknown  dead'' — her  husband  unknown, 
nameless?  Her  lover,  her  bridegroom,  the  father  of  her 
children — unknown?  Nay,  had  he  not  a  dear  name? 
Were  there  not  those  who  knew  him,  loved  and  cher- 
ished him?    ''Unknown?" 

50 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  51 

But  what  cared  crimson  War  for  a  woman's  crimson 
heart-blood.  What,  indeed?  ** Unknown  dead"  he 
was,  ** unknown  dead''  he  would  continue  to  be.  And 
the  pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war  still 
rolled  on  to  new  glories,  the  glories  of  filling  every  un- 
satisfied trench  with  nameless  husbands,  of  shadow- 
ing washtubs  with  the  bowed  forms  of  unknown  wives. 

So  the  sun  hastened  to  its  rest  that  afternoon,  and  a 
woman  hastened  to  her  toil.  Four  children  played 
about  her  cottage  door,  or  tugged  at  her  tattered  skirts. 
She  looked  into  their  fatherless  faces,  she  looked  away 
at  the  dreamy  hills,  she  saw  visions  of  the  past  dancing 
in  the  sunlight :  a  marriage  altar,  the  fragrance  of  flow- 
ers, a  delicately  reared  bride,  a  stalwart  groom,  a  sun- 
bathed future,  a  husband  resting  under  the  trees  at  the 
footfall  of  the  evening,  the  gleeful  laughter  of  chil- 
dren's voices,  a  peaceful  onflow  of  the  years,  white  hair 
and  grandchildren  about  their  knees — yes,  the  visions 
were  fair  that  danced  in  the  sunlight,  and  her  hand 
slackened  its  toil. 

A  child's  cry  of  pain,  a  frightened  vision,  a  grimy, 
steaming  washtub ;  red  hands — hands  once  so  fair. 

Who  was  she?    Merely  one  of  thousands,  that  is  all. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A  SIEGE — A  LITTLE  CHILD — A  CHRISTIAN  WOMAN. 

For  six  months  the  city  had  been  closely  besieged.  All 
food  supply  had  been  cut  off  three  months  earlier.  All 
hope  of  deliverance  was  now  abandoned.  Not  well  pro- 
visioned to  start  with,  the  inhabitants  were  face  to  face 
with  starvation.  Already  thousands  had  perished  by 
pestilence,  but  still  the  garrison  held  out.  Every  par- 
ticle of  food  had  been  confiscated  and  was  under  strict- 
est military  guard  day  and  night. 

This  was  doled  out  sparingly  once  a  day,  chiefly  to 
the  famished  garrison.  Any  attempt  upon  the  provi- 
sions, however  slight,  was  met  by  instant  death.  A 
death  meant  one  less  mouth,  so  a  death  was  a  good 
thing  all  round,  a  good  thing  for  those  who  survived, 
an  infinitely  better  thing  for  the  one  death  caressed  and 
carried  hence. 

Two  men  meet  in  the  public  cemetery,  that  is,  in  a 
public  street — any  street,  for  the  dead  are  everywhere. 
Once  they  were  millionaires,  their  lineage  was  long  and 
honorable,  their  social  standing  princely.  Both  were 
paupers  now.  So  there  they  stand,  tall,  gaunt,  ragged, 
starving. 

They  talk  of  the  siege,  of  the  famine,  the  pestilence, 
and  the  dead. 

"And  your  wife?** 

**We  buried  her  this  morning — it  is  well.** 

**Have  you  anything  to  eat?** 

52 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  53 

**Yes,  some  rats;  they  seem  to  be  multiplying.  Plenty 
of  food  for  such  cannibals.** 

*'Is  that  all  you  have?'* 

*  *  Oh,  no !  Soup  made  of  grass  roots  and  occasionally 
a  little  mule  if  we  get  in  at  the  death  before  the  garri- 
son find  it.'* 

**We  will  come  to  eating  the  dead  yet.'* 

A  sickening  horror  spread  over  the  other's  face.  His 
starving  friend  feebly  grasped  his  arm.  For  a  moment 
it  looked  as  though  both  would  fall.  Perhaps  they  would 
have,  but  they  clutched  the  shredded  remnant  of  what 
used  to  be  a  giant  oak  before  cannon  and  shells  had 
done  their  work. 

The  man  whose  face  had  revealed  such  a  spasm  of 
horror  finally  found  his  voice ;  it  was  weak  now ;  in  fact, 
it  had  long  been  weak.  "I  saw  a  loathsome  sight  yes- 
terday," he  said,  and  then  he  paused  as  another  shud- 
der shook  his  emaciated  frame.  *'It  was  a  child — I 
know  the  child — parents  both  dead — it  was — it  was — 
ravenously  gnawing  a  skull.  And — good  God,  man!  it 
made  me  hungry  to  see  it." 

And  still  the  siege  dragged  on. 

Three  years  before  this  a  great  city,  a  public  ad- 
dress, the  story  of  a  famine  in  India,  a  Christian 
mother,  tears  of  pity,  prayer  for  relief  of  the  starving, 
her  check  for  $500.  Now  the  same  Christian  mother, 
the  same  great  city,  a  newspaper  account  of  the  prog- 
ress of  the  siege,  of  gaunt  famine  within,  of  the  cer- 
tainty of  the  speedy  success  of  the  besiegers — and  a 
woman  falls  on  her  knees  rejoicing  and  thanking  God 
for  war's  triumphs. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 
OH  god!  how  long? 

Two  boys  of  the  same  age.  Two  boys  with  high 
hopes  of  future  usefulness  and  triumphs.  Two  boys 
with  pure  hearts  and  clean  bodies.  Two  boys  of  Godly 
training  in  the  home  and  church,  believers  in  the 
Prince  of  Peace,  believers  in  right  and  truth  and  jus- 
tice. 

The  home  of  the  one  in  the  North,  the  home  of  the 
other  in  the  South.  War.  A  twisting,  writhing,  gnash- 
ing, bleeding  serpent  of  hell,  two  thousand  miles  long, 
its  gory  jaws  crunching  men  to  death  at  the  mouth  of 
the  Potomac;  its  gory  tail  lashing  men  to  death  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Mississippi;  its  gory  body  crushing  men 
to  death  all  the  miles  and  miles  between.  Satiated  with 
gore,  starving  for  gore,  hissing  in  every  home  North 
and  South,  '  *  Give,  give,  give ! ' '  And  homes  North  and 
South,  giving,  giving,  giving.  Each  morning  the  mon- 
ster awaking  gaunt  and  famished,  each  day  gorging 
himself  to  unrecognizable  distortion,  each  evening  ly- 
ing down  moaning  with  hunger,  each  night  in  his  rest- 
less sleep  hissing,  "Give,  give,  give!'*  And  still  was 
given  the  fairest  and  the  best. 

And  this  was  the  gory  monster  that  writhed  and 
hissed  and  gorged  and  starved  and  stretched  his  bloody 
length  between  the  homes  of  the  boy  in  the  Northland 
and  the  boy  in  the  Southland.  And  they  were  going 
forth  to  feed  his  insatiate  appetite,  his  ravenous  blood 

54 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  55 

lust.  They  were  going  that  very  day.  Their  respective 
regiments  were  ready  to  leave  in  two  hours'  time. 

Prayer  is  offered  in  the  Southern  home.  At  the  same 
time  prayer  is  offered  in  the  Northern  home.  Two  fath- 
ers, children  of  the  same  Father,  praying  for  two  sons, 
consecrating  them  at  the  same  moment  to  the  holy  task 
of  feeding  each  other's  blood  to  the  same  dripping  jaws. 

The  two  regiments  muster,  one  in  the  North,  one  in 
the  South.  The  two  boys  are  in  their  places.  It  is  the 
same  day,  the  same  hour.  Two  saintly  servants  of  the 
Prince  of  Peace  step  forth  garbed  in  the  garments  of 
night  and  pray  to  the  ''Light  of  the  World"  to  let  His 
richest  blessing  rest  upon  the  fell  deeds  of  darkness. 

In  eloquent  words  of  passionate  thrill  they  both  cry 
unto  Him  who  lets  not  a  sparrow  fall  to  the  ground 
without  his  notice,  to  give  glorious  success  to  every 
effort  put  forth  by  their  beloved  lands  to  stain  the  lips 
of  that  serpent  of  hell  with  the  reddest  heart-blood  of 
His  other  children. 

Breathlessly,  reverently,  every  soldier  in  the  two 
regiments  hangs  upon  the  devout  outpourings  of  these 
proclaimers  of  "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  toward 
men."  And  each  man  is  sincere,  the  one  in  the  North, 
and  the  one  in  the  South.  Each  regiment  to  a  man  be- 
lieves it  is  called  of  God  to  a  high  and  holy  task.  Each 
starts  forth  on  its  sacred  crusade*  with  something  of  re- 
ligious elevation  and  ecstasy.  One.  faces  Northward, 
one  faces  Southward.  They  journey  toward  each 
other's  hearts — to  tear  them  out:  toward  each  other's 
breasts — to  rend  them  asunder. 

Above  them  the  same  shining  sun,  the  same  blue 
sky,  the  same  God  in  heaven,  the  same  banner  of  the 
Cross.    About  them  the  same  smiling  nature,  the  same 


56  A>TD  THIS  IS  WAR 

waving  grass,  the  same  singing  of  the  birds.  Behind 
them  the  same  prattle  of  children,  the  same  weeping 
of  women,  the  same  praying  of  fathers. 

They  reach  the  same  field.  With  holy  zeal  they  grap- 
ple in  the  name  of  their  God  and  their  firesides.  In 
the  name  of  their  wives  and  their  children  they  deso- 
late other  wives  and  children.  In  the  name  of  their 
God  they  send  each  others'  souls  hurtling  into  the  pres- 
ence of  their  God.  In  the  name  of  liberty  they  pour 
blood  into  that  fell  monster's  dripping  jaws,  and 
while  he  crunches  bones  and  spatters  blood  he  bellows 
with  muffled  roar,  "More,  more,   more!" 

And  the  boy  from  the  Southland  and  the  boy  from 
the  Northland,  each  haloed  by  a  father's  consecrating 
prayer,  meet  face  to  face  and  each  does  the  work  to 
which  he  was  dedicated — and  still  that  muffled  snarl, 
"More,  more,  more!" 

0  Sun  in  heaven,  how  long  must  thou  look  upon  such 
red  deeds  as  these?  0  God  of  love,  how  long  will  men 
cry  unto  thee  to  bless  their  hatred?  O  writhing  ]\Ion- 
ster  with  the  dripping  jaws,  how  long  wilt  thou  be 
able  to  persuade  men  they  are  doing  God's  service  when 
they  feed  thee  with  the  blood  of  their  children? 

0  God !  how  long,  how  long  ? 


CHAPTER  XV. 

WHY?  WHY?  WHY? 

She  was  only  three  years  old  when  her  father  left 
for  the  war.  It  seemed  rather  grand  to  her  that  day, 
child  that  she  was.  Of  war,  of  course,  she  had  not  the 
slightest  conception.  Her  father  had  often  gone  away 
before,  but  always  came  back  in  a  few  days;  so  his  go- 
ing this  time  had  no  terrors  for  her,  much  as  she  loved 
him  and  would  miss  him. 

It  was  a  very  grand  sight,  so  it  seemed  to  her  little 
heart:  great  big  colored  flags  fluttering  in  the  wind, 
showy  uniform,  and  drums.  My,  what  drums !  and  how 
they  thrilled  her  wee  soul.  And  all  because  her  papa 
was  going  away  to  war.  War  certainly  must  be  a  fine 
thing.  And  what  a  great  man  her  papa  must  be  to  have 
all  this  music  and  everything  just  because  he  was  going 
away  a  little  while.  All  this  she  felt,  though  her  tumul- 
tuous little  soul  perhaps  did  not  do  much  distinct 
thinking. 

"Why  didn't  they  have  wars  oftener?  They  certainly 
would  if  only  they  knew  how  much  little  girls  liked 
such  things.  She  wished  her  papa  could  go  to  war 
every  day.  It  would  be  such  lots  of  fun.  Ah,  poor 
little  child,  your  papa  can  go  to  war  every  day — every 
day  till  the  years  have  passed  over  thine  unknowing 
little  head. 

**0h,  mamma,  isn't  it  grand!  And  papa  is  going, 
too!  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  my  papa  can  go!  How  sorry 
poor  papa  would  be  if  he  couldn't  go  with  the  rest!  Oh, 

57 


58  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

mamma,  see!  He  is  getting  onto  the  train  now.  Oh, 
I  hope  papa  can  go  to  war  lots  of  times,  don't  you, 
mamma  ? ' ' 

A  dry,  choking  sob.  The  prattle  suddenly  ceases.  A 
startled  little  face  is  turned  up  toward  a  face  livid  with 
agony.  *'0h,  mamma,  what  is  it?  What  is  it,  mamma?'* 
And  a  child  bursts  into  frightened  weeping.  "Mamma, 
mamma,  what  is  it?  Why  you  cry?  Won't  my  papa 
come  back  tonight?" 

**No,  not  tonight,  little  one." 

More  convulsive  weeping  on  the  part  of  the  child,  for 
the  mother's  feelings  have  seized  with  icy  clutch  the 
very  citadel  of  her  little  soul.  "When  papa  come  back? 
When  papa  come  back?  Mamma,  mamma,  when  papa 
come  back?" 

Finally  the  mother  is  able   to  speak  again: 

"There,  there,  little  one.  Don't  cry.  Papa  will  come 
back  to  us  as  soon  as  he  can.  Maybe  it  won't  be  long. 
Mamma  will  take  care  of  you,  darling.  And  you  must 
take  care  of  mamma." 

**Yes,  me  take  care  mamma."  And  her  tears  were 
dried  for  a  time. 

But  the  days  wore  on,  the  weeks  wore  on,  the  months 
dragged  slowly  past,  but  papa  didn't  come  back.  Papa 
was  her  playfellow,  the  sharer  of  all  her  little  games, 
all  her  little  pleasures,  all  her  little  troubles ;  but  papa 
didn't  come  back. 

"Where  papa  now?" 

**Away  at  the  war,  little  one." 

**I  hate  war,  mamma.    When  papa  come  back?" 

**I  can't  say,  dearie.    I  hope  soon." 

*'You  always  say  that,  mamma,  and  now  I  have  wait- 
ed so  long  and  my  heart  is  just  breaking." 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  59 

And  there  was  another  broken  heart  under  the  same 
roof,  but  the  little  one  didn't  know  it. 

Days  that  were  years  followed  days  that  had  been 
years;  but  no  papa  came  back. 

"Mamma,  what  papas  do  in  war?'' 

*  *  Oh,  they  march  and  live  in  tents  and  such  things. ' ' 

*'But  why  march;  why  live  in  tents?  Why  don't 
they  go  home  where  their  little  girls  are?" 

"They  have  to  do  these  things,  dearest.  I  can't  ex- 
plain it  all  to  you." 

"Who  makes  them  do  these  things,  mamma?" 

"Oh,  rulers;  men  with  lots  of  power." 

"I  hate  rulers.    Keep  papas  away  from  little  girls." 

The  child  grew  older,  taller,  wiser;  but  no  papa  saw 
these  changes.  One  day  she  was  playing  with  an  older 
child,  and  suddenly  the  question  fell  from  her  lips: 

"What  papas  do  in  war?" 

"Fight.  That's  what  they  do.  Shoot  and  stab  each 
other.     Let  the  blood  out.     Kill  everybody  they  can." 

A  child  dashed  into  the  house,  crying:  "Oh,  mam- 
ma, you  didn't  know  it  all  what  they  do  in  war. 
They  kill  each  other.  They  let  blood  out.  Oh,  mamma, 
will  they  kill  papa?"  And  sobs  stopped  all  farther 
questions  for  a  time. 

That  night  as  a  little  white  figure  was  being  tucked 
in  bed  two  great  glittering  eyes  looked  up  into  a  moth- 
er's worn  and  weary  face. 

"Mamma?" 

"Yes,  dearest." 

"Does  God  rule?" 

"Yes,  little  one;  why  do  you  ask?" 

"Does  He  rule  all  things?" 

"Yes." 


60  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

* '  Can  He  stop  anything  He  wants  to  ? " 

*'Yes,  of  course,  dear.    "Why  do  you  ask?*' 

**Does  He  rule  in  war?'* 

*'Yes.'' 

**Does  He  want  papas  to  kill  each  other?*' 

''No,  I  think  not." 

''Then  why  does  He  let  them  do  it?" 

"Some  men  are  bad,  you  know,  and  want  to  hurt  the 
good  men,  so  the  good  men  have  to  fight." 

"Yes,  but  why  don't  God  take  care  of  the  bad  men 
and  let  papas  go  home  to  their  little  girls?" 

"I  don't  know,  dearest.  I  think  it  is  all  for  the  best, 
some  way.  Now  go  to  sleep,  and  don't  ask  mamma 
any  more  questions  tonight." 

A  mother  stooped  down  and  kissed  two  fevered  little 
lips,  a  tear  fell  upon  a  child's  face,  a  woman's  figure 
passed  swiftly  from  the  room ;  but  two  little  eyes,  wide 
open,  stared  into  the  dark  for  long,  long  after;  and  in 
a  little  brain  was  whirling  white-hot  a  great  iron  wheel, 
tipped  with  a  score  of  cutting  diamond  points,  and  that 
white-hot  whirling  of  iron  was  the  one  word,  "why, 
why,  why?" 

In  another  room  of  that  same  house  there  was  kneel- 
ing for  long  hours  the  shrinking  form  of  a  woman, 
with  a  widowed  heart ;  and  a  pallid  face,  whose  hot  eye- 
balls had  burnt  to  cinders  the  fount  of  tears,  was  up- 
lifted in  the  darkness  toward  unseen  heaven;  and  lips 
which  made  no  sound  were  still  framing  that  same, 
desolate,  unanswered  cry,    "Why,  why,  why?" 


^ 


CHAPTER     XVI. 

HOME  IN-  TWO  WEEKS. 

Four  years — and  what  a  story  they  had  written.  Its 
outward  facts  have  been  repeated  a  thousand  times.  Its 
meaning  for  a  race  told  and  retold.  Its  significance  to 
the  nation  become  a  twice-told  tale.  Its  larger  place 
in  the  world's  onward  march  accurately,  or,  at  any 
rate,  often  charted  and  defined. 

But  what  signifies  all  this  to  throbbing  human 
hearts?  There  are  other  stories  which  have  never  been 
told,  never  will  be  told.  There  is  no  language  in 
which  to  tell  them.  The  dumb  ache  of  invisible  souls 
is  the  unpublished  literature  of  this  woe.  And  each 
tale  is  a  separate  masterpiece,  an  edition  in  one  volume, 
an  edition  de  luxe,  bound  by  the  walls  of  a  beating 
heart,  printed  in  its  costliest  blood,  read  by  a  single 
pair  of  eyes;  but  read  over  and  over  till  the  sight  of 
those  eyes  fades  away  forever  and  the  volume  itself 
crumbles  back  to  the  dust. 

Four  years  had  passed.  The  children  had  grown 
larger,  taller.  But  the  wife,  the  mother?  She  had 
grown  smaller,  someway.  The  father  was  away,  far 
away.  His  eyes  noted  not  the  children's  growth,  noted 
not  the  wife's  slendering  form.  His  eyes  were  on  the 
battle  line. 

But  the  years  had  passed,  not  a  scratch  had  he  re- 
ceived. The  end  of  the  war  was  in  sight.  Victory  was 
in  sight,  then  home,  and  rest  under  the  shade  of  the 
trees.  And  his  eyes  grew  misty,  and  the  old  familiar 
voices  were  murmuring  in  his  ears — voices  of  his  little 
children,  and  the  voice  of  his  wife  crooning  an  even- 

61 


62  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

ing  sonsr  to  her  babe — h\s  babe — at  her  bosom.  Only 
one  battle  more,  perhaps  none;  then  Northward,  then 
home,  wife,  children. 

His  heart  is  full,  full  of  sweet  gladness,  full  of  a 
great  thankfulness.  He  will  write  home,  weary  though 
he  be  with  the  day's  march,  and  though  it  is  not  the 
day  he  usually  writes. 

**My  dear  Wife  and  Children: 

**I  cannot  close  my  eyes  without  writing  to  you 
aerain.  My  heart  is  too  full  of  gladness  to  keep  it  all 
shut  up  within.  Peace  is  in  sight.  The  war  can't  pos- 
sibly last  over  two  weeks  more.  The  enemy  is  com- 
pletely exhausted,  without  resources  of  any  kind,  and 
without  the  possibility  of  escape.  Probably  there  will 
not  be  any  more  fighting,  at  most,  only  a  little  skir- 
mishing. All  daneer  is  now  over.  I  am  well  and 
sound.  Soon  I  shall  see  your  dear  faces  again.  Do  you 
suppose  you  will  know  father  when  he  comes?  And 
will  he  know  all  his  big  boys  and  girls?  However  much 
you  have  changed,  yet  I  think  father's  heart  would 
tell  him  who  you  are,  even  in  the  blackest  night.  Two 
weeks  more  and  then  I  shall  soon  be  coming  to  you. 
With  thankful  heart  and  all  its  love, 

*'YouR  Happy  Father." 

A  home  far  away.  A  letter  from  the  front  of  the 
army.  Tears  of  joy  that  sparkle  like  a  casket  of  rarest 
gems.  Anthems  in  the  heart  that  angels  hear.  A  night 
of  blessed  sleep.  Sunlit  days  acoming.  Clouds  gone — 
driven  so  far  hence   almost  forgotten. 

Thirteen  days  all  glorified.  One  more  day  and  then 
the  formal  surrender  of  the  enemy.  An  accidental  skir- 
mish. A  few  empty  saddles.  A  body  shipped  North- 
ward to  a  waiting  household.    The  two  weeks  were  up. 

Father  had  gone  Home. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE  EVENING  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

They  reached  the  camping  ground  at  the  close  of  the 
day,  hot,  dusty  and  weary  from  their  long-forced 
march.  Tomorrow  the  battle  would  be  fought,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  of  that.  The  enemy's  lines  were  in 
plain  view,  and  he  was  not  retreating.  For  days  they 
had  anticipated  a  fight  in  the  immediate  future.  That 
future  had  become  the  present. 

As  the  sun  sank  below  the  bleak  rim  of  the  distant 
hills  his  last  rays  rested  on  three  hundred  thousand 
men  at  arms,  making  ready  to  grapple  in  mortal  com- 
bat when  once  more  he  should  return  to  shed  his  morn- 
ing beams  upon  the  evil  and  the  good.  Three  hundred 
thousand  men,  three  hundred  thousand  homes.  Night. 
What  of  the  morrow? 

Worn  out  by  their  long  march  the  men  seemed  in- 
different to  everything  else,  indifferent  to  the  morrow, 
indifferent  to  eternity.  Darkness  came  on.  Campfires 
gleamed  and  flickered  for  miles  and  miles  on  either  side 
the  valley,  a  narrow  space  between.  Tomorrow  that 
space  would  be  closed  by  two  writhing  monsters,  be- 
come as  one  in  their  deadly  embrace. 

The  spectacle  the  camps  presented  was  beautiful, 
sublime,  appalling.  Gradually  quiet  settled  down  every- 
where— quiet,  ominous,  creepy,  unnerving.  Silence 
was  king.  His  reign  undisputed.  The  men  were  be- 
ginning to  think,  to  think  of  the  morrow.  Tonight  in 
health  and  strength,  tonight  a  comrade  by  their  sides, 

63 


64  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

tonight  full  of  lusty  life,  tonight  young  and  the  future 
fair — but  tomorrow!  Tonight  soul  and  body  together, 
tonight  resting  in  their   tent,  tomorrow  night — where? 

The  clouds  which  had  obscured  the  sky  gradually 
broke  away.  The  stars  came  out  one  by  one.  The  moon 
rose  serene  and  untroubled.  Never  were  the  heavens 
more  peaceful,  never  the  light  of  moon  and  stars  more 
soft  and  silvery.  How  calm  and  quiet  the  heavens 
above;  how  calm  and  quiet,  unnaturally  quiet,  the 
earth  below.  What  resplendent  beauty  as  one  looked 
from  the  camp  toward  the  sky;  what  unmanning 
beauty  as  one  looked  from  the  sky  toward  the  camp. 

Was  there  ever  a  fairer  landscape  ?  Woods,  open 
glades,  meadowlands,  pastures,  silvery  streams  of  crys- 
tal water  sparkling  and  murmuring  in  the  brooklets, 
the  fragrance  of  flowers  and  orchard  blossoms.  Homes 
everywhere:  peaceful,  well-kept,  beloved  homes.  Homes 
where  brides  had  been  brought,  homes  whence  brides 
had  gone  forth.  Homes  where  little  children  had 
laughed  and  prattled  that  very  day,  homes  where  little 
children  were  even  now  sleeping.  Homes  where  old 
men  sat  and  dreamed  of  the  days  that  had  fled,  where 
boys  dreamed  of  the  days  that  were  to  come.  Homes, 
every  room  of  which  had  been  hallowed  by  some 
memory  sacred  to  human  hearts. 

A  village  of  two  hundred  homes,  four  church 
steeples  pointing  skyward,  evening  worship,  songs  of 
peace. 

Campfires  all  about,  three  hundred  thousand  men 
under  arms — tomorrow  the  battle.  Night  and  peace, 
the  peace  of  nature.  Nisrht  and  long,  long  thoughts, 
the  thoughts  of  the  waiting  hosts,  hosts  composed  of 
individual  men  and  boys,  husbands,  sons,  lovers.    Ah, 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  65 

the  thoughts  of  three  hundred  thousand  men  on  the 
eve  of  battle.  Ah,  the  thoughts  of  three  hundred  thou- 
sand homes  on  the  eve  of  battle. 

The  men  had  not  yet  laid  down  to  their  rest,  not  all 
of  them.  Some,  however,  were  already  in  sodden  slum- 
ber. Of  those  awake  and  still  up,  some  were  drowning 
thought.  Look  at  that  little  circle  of  dark  and  des- 
perate faces.  You  can  .iust  distinguish  the  outline  of 
their  features  by  the  dull  glow  of  the  campfire.  What 
are  they  doing?  Look  closer.  They  are  shuffling  a 
greasy  pack  of  cards,  gambling,  carousing,  swearing, 
till  your  blood  runs  cold.  And  tomorrow  the  battle. 
Twenty-fonr  hours  and  where  will  they  be?  Who 
knows?  What  care  they?  It  may  be  their  last  night. 
They  will  enjoy  it.  They  will  drown  thought.  Life 
is  a  gamble,  anyway ;  they  might  as  well  make  the  most 
of  the  time  that  is  theirs.  And  so  they  gamble  on, 
drink  on,  curse  on.    And  so  the  evening  wanes. 

Farther  along  another  low  fire.  A  beardless  boy 
crouching  low  by  its  feeble  flicker.  There  is  a  little 
book  in  his  hand.  It  is  worn  and  tattered.  His  mother 
gave  it  to  him  the  day  he  said  good-bye.  He  is  reading 
its  old  familiar  pages  ere  he  lays  him  down  to  sleep. 
Tomorrow  is  the  battle.  It  may  be  the  last  time  he 
will  ever  read  in  that  little  book.  His  face  glows  as 
he  reads — is  it  the  reflection  of  the  fire?  It  cheers  his 
heart.  He  finishes  the  reading.  He  sits  quiet  for  a 
time.  He  is  thinking.  Perhaps  his  thoughts  are  of  a 
home  up  among  the  hills  now  so  far  away.  Perhaps 
he  is  thinking  of  her  who  gave  him  that  book — will  he 
ever  look  into  her  eyes  again;  ever  touch  her  hand 
again?    He  lies  down  to  sleep. 


66  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

Another  crouching  form  by  another  waning  fire.  A 
saddle  for  a  writing-desk.  A  young  man,  a  pencil,  and 
a  scrap  of  paper.  Look  at  this  youth.  He  is  here  at 
the  call  of  God  and  of  duty.  But  his  heart  and  his 
love  are  far  away.  There  is  a  maiden  somewhere  whom 
he  left  in  tears  back  in  a  land  called  home,  blessed 
land  called  home.  Tomorrow  is  the  battle — tomorrow 
night,  what — where? 

It  is  long  before  he  begins  to  write.  His  thoughts  are 
dallying  with  the  past,  the  sweet  enchanting  past.  He 
almost  forgets  the  present  for  a  moment,  almost  for- 
gets the  morrow.  Once  more  they  are  strolling  arm  in 
arm  by  the  water's  side.  Once  more  they  are  seated 
under  the  trees.  Once  more  he  is  pouring  forth  in  low, 
passionate  tones  the  treasures  of  his  overflowing  heart. 
Again  he  sees  her  changing  color,  hears  her  low-spoken 
answer. 

The  dreamy  days  that  follow.  The  future  how  radi- 
ant beyond  words.  War's  alarums.  His  awful  con- 
flict, his  decision,  a  pallid  face,  a  swooning  form,  the 
last  farewell.  And  tomorrow  the  battle,.  And  the  to- 
morrows that  are  to  follow?  A  horse  stamps  uneasily; 
fear  of  the  unknown  has  found  its  way  even  into  the 
hearts  of  dumb  beasts.  The  soldier  boy  is  recalled 
from  his  musing.  He  must  hasten  his  letter — it  may 
be  his  last. 

**Dear  Heart: 

"How  can  I  write  to  you  in  such  a  place  as  this,  and 
yet  I  must.  I  know  your  love  and  I  know  your  bravery. 
T  shall  never  forget  your  courage  in  letting  me  go.  You 
were  braver  than  I.  It  is  hard  enough  down  here  for 
me,  God  knows.    And  yet  T  know  it  is  harder  for  you, 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  67 

for  yon  can  only  wait.  You  know  the  battle  is  near, 
my  own.  But  when  you  let  me  go  you  knew  it  was  to 
battles  with  all  their  dangers.  We  must  not  flinch  now. 
Your  love  has  been  the  fairest  thing  in  my  life.  It  is 
worth  while  to  have  lived  just  to  have  known  such  love 
as  yours.  And  now  if  I  must  needs  give  my  life  to  my 
country,  it  is  more  your  gift  than  my  own,  for  I  am 
all  thine  next  to  my  God's.  He  will  take  care  of  you 
and  he  will  take  care  of  me  and  nothing  can  happen 
that  is  not  for  the  best,  however  blind  we  may  be  as  we 
look  at  it  now.  I  have  been  thinking  of  every  incident, 
every  word,  every  look,  which  have  been  shared  by  us 
together.  These  thoughts  have  made  me  brave  for  the 
morrow.  They  must  make  you  brave  for  all  the  tomor- 
rows, my  sweetheart,  if  you  ever  need  such  help.  Oh, 
if  I  could  only  see  you  tonight,  only  hear  your  voice 
once  more.  And  yet  perhaps  it  is  better  that  this  can- 
not be.  If  anything  happens  tomorrow,  remember  my 
last  night  was  spent  in  thinking  of  thee,  my  own,  and 
the  last  thought  of  my  life  will  be  of  thee  whether  it  be 
tomorrow  or  in  the  long  distant  years.  I  am  sure  I  shall 
come  through  the  battle  all  right.  And  the  future  is 
all  fair.  I  am  not  afraid  and  you  must  not  be.  I 
haven't  written  one-tenth  of  what  is  in  my  heart  to  say, 
but  I  wouldn't  for  worlds  write  a  word  which  could 
in  any  event  make  the  future  harder  for  you.  My  last 
thoughts,  all  my  thoughs  and  all  my  love  are  yours 
now  and  shall  be  to  all  eternity. 

** Your  Lover." 

And  tomorrow  was  the  battle. 

And  while  the  lover  was  writing  a  father  was  think- 
ing of  his  home,  of  his  sweetheart,  too,  and  of  the  little 


68  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

ones  who  were  growing  and  blossoming  in  their  Garden 
of  Eden.  A  fathomless  yearning  was  tightening  his 
heart-strings.  Tomorrow  was  the  battle.  The  little 
ones  must  be  in  bed  by  now.  he  was  thinking,  peace- 
fully asleep.  Ah,  their  sweet  baby  faces.  How  fair 
they  were  nestled  among  the  snowy  pillows.  Perhaps 
the  mother  was  standing  by  their  cribs  gazing  down 
into  the  faces  of  those  little  ones — standing  alone. 
Would  she  always  stand  thus  alone  in  the  future?  Per- 
haps, for  tomorrow  was  the  battle.  How  often  he  had 
stood  there  with  her,  each  with  arm  about  the  other. 
And  what  an  ecstasy  of  light  had  haloed  her  face  as  she 
looked  from  his  face  to  the  little  faces  and  back  from 
theirs  to  his. 

How  lookpd  that  face  tonight?  Was  it  pale  and 
shadowed?  Was  it  weary  and  sorrow-laden?  He  would 
not  have  it  thus.  Was  it  serene  and  joyous  as  in  the 
days  that  were  now  a  memory?  No,  he  would  not 
have  it  thus,  not  quite,  and  he  far  away.  How  would 
he  have  it?    He  could  not  say. 

Would  he  ever  stand  by  her  side  again?  Would  he 
ever  see  that  light  in  her  eyes  again?  Would  he  ever 
look  down  into  those  sleeping  faces  again?  Who  could 
answer?  Tomorrow  was  the  battle.  He  would  go  mad 
if  he  asked  such  questions.  It  would  unnerve  him  for 
the  battle.    It  would  make  him  a  deserter. 

What  would  become  of  that  little  household  if  father 
never  returned?  Ah,  he  must  not  ask  such  questions. 
He  would  return  home.  Yes.  he  must  return.  He  must 
be  spared.    Home  needed  him  as  well  as  country. 

He  believed  in  prayer.  So  he  had  been  taught.  That 
belief  did  not  desert  him  now.  And  so  he  knelt  on  that 
tented  field.     Weirdly  awe-inspiring  was    his  uplifted 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  69 

face  as  the  fitful  gleam  of  the  dying  embers  played  over 
it.  In  his  soul  he  was  as  much  alone,  despite  the  thou- 
sands all  about  him,  as  was  that  shepherd  boy  who, 
when  the  world  was  young,  kept  watch  and  ward  over 
his  flocks  by  night  and  saw  God's  handiwork  in  the 
heavens  and  talked  with  the  Infinite  Father  of  all  the 
little  concerns  of  his  own  adoring  heart. 

And  so  on  the  tented  field  a  father  poured  forth  his 
soul's  broken  cry  for  a  home  in  a  far-off  land: 

"0  God,  who  hearest  when  thy  children  call,  hear  a 
father's  prayer  for  wife  and  children.  Art  not  thou 
a  Father,  and  didst  not  thy  heart  yearn  over  thy  Sont 
0  God,  save  me  in  the  hour  of  battle.  Spare  me  for  the 
sake  of  the  children  committed  unto  my  care  for  a  sea- 
son. Thou  hast  called  me  into  the  service  of  my  coun- 
try. I  have  answered.  Spare  me  that  I  may  answer 
the  other  call,  0  God,  if  it  be  thy  good  pleasure.  Deal 
gently  with  my  lonely  wife.  May  the  eye  that  slum- 
bers net  nor  sleeps  watch  over  my  little  ones  with  infi- 
nite tenderness.  And  if  on  the  morrow  my  soul  is  sum- 
moned into  thine  Infinite  Presence,  prepare  it  for  its 
long  journey  hence.  And,  0  God,  if  so  it  must  be, 
prepare  her  who  stood  with  me  at  the  marriage  altar, 
who  is  the  mother  of  my  children;  prepare  her  for  the 
blow  if  it  must  needs  fall.  Take  care  of  my  little  ones 
lest  their  feet  stray.  May  they  find  father  and  home 
in  the  after  days  when  they,  too,  must  lay  them  down 
to  their  rest.  0  God,  spare  me  if  thou  wilt  for  others* 
sake.  Thy  will  be  done.  Be  gracious  unto  the  father- 
less where'er  they  be.  And,  oh,  may  this  red  carnage 
scourge  soon  pass  away  and  return  no  more  forever, 
through  Jesus  Christ,  Amen.'* 

And  tomorrow  was  the  battle.    And  the  profane  were 


70  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

carousing,  and  the  Godly  were  reading  an  ancient  mes- 
sage that  is  always  new,  and  lovers  were  writing  fare- 
well letters,  and  fathers  were  praying,  and  nature  was 
smiling  all  about  them,  and  the  stars  were  looking 
peacefully  down,  and  the  night  was  waning,  and  the 
hour  of  blood  was  hastening,  and  angels  were  weeping, 
and  demons  were  exulting — for  tomorrow  was  the 
battle. 

Three  hundred  thousand  men,  three  hundred  thou- 
sand homes — and  the  night  before  the  battle.  And 
three  hundred  thousand  homes  knew  it  was  the  night 
before  the  battle. 

In  those  homes  there  were  eyes  wet  with  weeping. 
There  were  eyes  red  with  weeping.  There  were  eyes 
that  had  long  forgotten  how  to  weep,  tears  were  a 
luxury  exhausted  long  ago.  There  were  tongues  that 
were  garrulous.  There  were  tongues  that  were  silent. 
There  were  tongues  that  spoke  rarely,  briefly,  and  yet 
said  a  thousand  unspeakable  things  which  they  did  not 


There  were  faces  in  three  hundred  thousand  homes, 
blanched  faces,  flushed  faces,  weary  faces,  pinched  and 
drawn  faces ;  faces  made  sick  with  hope  deferred ;  faces 
scarred  with  red  gashes  of  grief;  there  were  faces  of 
aged  fathers  and  mothers,  faces  of  deserted  brides, 
faces  of  desolated  wives,  faces  of  forsaken  sweethearts, 
faces  of  little  children. 

There  were  thoughts  in  three  hundred  thousand 
homes — thoughts  of  the  aged,  thoughts  of  wives,  of 
brides,  of  sweethearts,  of  boys  and  girls — long,  long 
thoughts,  for  tomorrow  was  the  battle  and  three  hun- 
dred thousand  homes  knew  that  tomorrow  was  the  bat- 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  71 

tie.  Three  hundred  thousand  homes,  twelve  hundred 
thousand  inmates  of  those  homes,  twelve  hundred  thou- 
sand anguished  hearts,  twenty-four  hundred  thousand 
sorrowing  eyes. 

Hark!  An  aged  couple  are  at  prayer:  ''0  God,  thou 
who  didst  give  unto  us  a  son;  we  have  loaned  him  to 
our  country.  Bring  him  back  safely  we  plead  with 
Thee.  Oh,  spare  his  life  in  the  battle!  Our  boy,  our 
boy !  How  could  we  give  him  up !  O  God,  thou  know- 
est  he  is  all  we  have,  our  one  support  and  comfort  for 
our  last  days.  Let  not  this  last  grief  fall  upon  us.  We 
are  Thy  servants.  Shield  us  and  the  boy  thou  hast 
given  us  and  we  have  given  Thee.  Spare  him,  0  God, 
lest  we  die.'' 

And  a  wife  prays:  '*0  God  in  heaven,  spare  my 
husband,  the  father  of  these  my  helpless  children. 
Keep  him  in  the  hour  of  battle.  Let  him  come  back  to 
us,  lest  we  perish.  The  world  is  so  large  and  so  lonely. 
We  cannot  live  without  him.  0  God,  be  merciful.  It 
is  all  I  ask,  just  his  life.  It  is  so  little  for  Thee  to  give, 
but  it  is  our  all,  our  all.  0  God,  hear  thy  child's  plea. 
Save  him,  O.my  God." 

And  a  little  child  prays:  "Dear  Jesus,  my  papa  is 
way  off  and  left  his  little  girl  and  mamma  alone. 
Mamma  say  papa  had  to  go  'cause  you  wanted  him  to. 
But  I  don't  like  war  and- 1  want  you  to  send  my  papa 
back  to  his  little  girl.  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  like  it  to 
have  your  papa  in  a  war.  It  is  a  dreadful  thing,  war 
is,  for  they  kill  papas.  Mamma  been  crying  all  day,  I 
know,  though  she  tries  to  make  me  think  she  hasn't, 
'cause  tomorrow  is  a  battle  and  my  papa  may  get  hurt- 
ed.  I  don't  know  as  I  could  love  you  so  much  if  you 
let  my  papa  be  hurted.  Oh,  let  me  have  my  poor  papa 
once  more." 


72  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

And  so  three  hundred  thousand  homes  were  bom- 
barding heaven  with  their  cries  of  anguish.  And  so 
fathers  in  both  camps  were  crying  unto  God  for  life 
for  the  sake  of  others.  And  so  all  night  long  the  hosts 
of  heaven  had  to  listen  to  these  piteous  moanings  of  the 
children  of  the  earth. 

But  heaven  was  impotent.  War  was  king.  The  dark 
hours  marched  on.  War's  red  glee  was  coming  on 
apace.  Tomorrow  was  the  battle.  Three  hundred 
thousand  men  were  waiting.  Three  hundred  thousand 
homes  were  waiting.  Two  nations  were  waiting. 
Heaven  and  hell  were  waitinor. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  WANING  HOURS  OP  THAT  NIGHT. 

And  so  sable  night  marched  on  at  its  own  imperious 
stride,  unheeding  what  the  morrow  might  witness,  un- 
heeding the  cries  of  anguish  that  were  going  up  in  the 
darkness  from  homes  scattered  all  over  two  vast  na- 
tions, unheeding  the  fate  of  souls  that  were  to  be  hurled 
into  eternity — some  to  highest  heaven  and  some  to  deep- 
est hell. 

0  Night,  calm,  remorseless,  imperturable  Night! 
Neither  men's  fears  nor  men's  prayers,  men's  tears 
nor  men's  ambitions,  can  alter  thine  unheeding-  on- 
sweep.  Thou  refusest  to  quicken  thy  march.  Thou 
refusest  to  slacken  thy  march.  Thou  art  deaf,  0  Night. 
Thou  art  without  heart,  0  Night.  What  carest  thou 
for  broken  hearts  of  men?  What  carest  thou  for  broken 
homes?  What  carest  thou  for  fatherless  children  and 
husbandless  wives?  Naught,  naught,  naught!  Since 
Time  began  thou  hast  swept  on  over  man's  dwelling 
place  at  that  same  serene  and  pauseless  stride.  Thou 
hast  known  what  the  sun  trailing  after  thee  would 
bring.    But  thou  hast  not  cared. 

Thou  refusest  to  delay  at  the  cry  of  the  condemned. 
Thou  refusest  to  hasten  at  the  prayer  of  lovers.  Thou 
keepest  thine  own  counsel.  None  share  thy  thoughts, 
0  Night.  Thy  heart  is  stone.  Thine  ears  are  stone. 
Tomorrow  is  the  battle,  but  thou  marchest  on.  To- 
morrow evening  a  field  red  with  the  blood  of  the  chil- 
dren of  human  homes  will  stare  naked  into  thy  shroud- 

73 


74  AND  THIS  IS  WAK 

ed  face.  Carest  thou  not,  O  Night!  Slacken  thy 
dread  speed.  Tomorrow's  eve  Rachels  will  be  weeping 
for  their  children.     Carest  thou  not,  0  Night? 

And  so  the  Night  strode  on  over  the  fated  field  where 
three  hundred  thousand  men  were  sleeping — or  trying 
to  sleep.  Her  trailing  garments  as  they  dragged  across 
that  quiet  valley  sounded  like  the  rustlings  of  the  cere- 
ments of  the  dead.  It  seemed  as  though  the  air  was 
filled  with  the  ghosts  of  the  slain  of  a  thousand  battle- 
fields, as  though  these  were  preparing  the  shrouds  for 
the  living  beneath  them  who  ere  twice  twelve  hours 
should  have  flown  would  join  their  own  invisible  hosts, 
while  the  battered  bodies,  whence  they  had  escaped, 
would  lie  as  mangled  carrion  in  the  darkness. 

Night  passed  on.  The  morrow  was  the  battle.  Some 
on  that  tented  field  were  sleeping.  Others  were  trying 
to  sleep  and  could  not.  But  it  was  not  fear  that  kept 
them  awake.  What  w^as  it?  It  was  the  visions  which 
danced  over  their  minds — visions  of  homes  far  away,  of 
faces  they  knew  and  loved,  the  old  days  and  memories. 

The  camp  fires  died  down.  Silence  deepened.  The 
night  deepened.  Awe  deepened.  Men  were  sleeping. 
Tomorrow  night  thousands  of  them  would  know  a 
deeper  sleep.  A  restless  horse  occasionally  neighed  his 
uncanny  alarm.  Weird  and  sepulchral  it  smote  human 
ears — a  sort  of  requiem.  Men  turned  uneasily  in  their 
blankets.  The  quiet  stars  looked  down.  All  nature  was 
at  rest.  The  birds  were  sleeping  in  the  branches.  The 
flowers  were  making  ready  to  bloom  on  the  morrow. 

And  soldiers  dreamed  that  night.  Here  is  a  father 
lying  wrapped  in  his  blanket.  Time  has  rolled  back  a 
few  months.    War's  voice  has  not  yet  bellowed  forth  its 


AND  THIS  IS  WAB  75 

awful  summons.  He  is  in  his  little  home.  His  wife  is 
by  his  side.  A  little  toddler  is  trying  to  walk  to  their 
outstretched  hands.  Two  souls  are  dancing  in  two 
pairs  of  eyes,  a  little  one  looks  up  into  those  eyes, 
heaven  has  kissed  human  hearts :  a  smile  plays  over  the 
face  of  the  sleeper;  the  little  one  makes  a  last  rushing 
plunge  toward  his  arms,  his  hand  seems  to  be  tighten- 
ing about  a  little  hand.  But  that  little  hand  is  cold,  it 
is  hard;  the  sleeper  suddenly  awakes — it  is  his  bayonet 
he  has  grasped.  About  him  are  three  hundred  thou- 
sand men.    Tomorrow  is  the  battle. 

Another  sleeper — another  dreamer.  The  long-antici- 
pated night  has  come.  Never  had  she  been  so  radiantly 
beautiful.  Proudly  he  is  leading  her  to  the  marriage 
altar.  Clearly  the  solemn  vows  are  spoken.  A  shining 
pathway  slopes  upward  from  that  altar  to  the  high 
stars.  Arm  in  arm,  hand  in  hand,  he  sees  himself  and 
that  other  now  by  his  side  in  all  the  joyous  stages  of 
that  lofty  golden  ascent.  And  birds  are  ever  singing 
and  flowers  are  ever  blooming  as  they  climb.  A  trem- 
bling horse  paws  the  earth  near  by.  His  eyes  fly  open. 
Cannons,  rifles,  swords — and  tomorrow  the  battle. 

A  soldier  boy  dreams.  It  is  the  night  he  leaves  home 
— perhaps  forever.  But  he  is  not  at  home.  He  is 
spending  the  last  evening  with  her  whose  heart  has  be- 
come the  home  of  his  heart.  Slowly  and  sadly  they 
walk  in  the  moonlight.  Swift  and  sad  are  their 
thoughts.  Will  it  ever  be — that  home  of  which  they 
have  joyously  talked  and  dreamed  these  many  moons? 
"Who  could  tell?  Again,  in  a  flood  of  passionate  tears 
she  is  beseeching  him  not  to  leave  her.  With  ashen 
face  and  ashen  lips  he  is  trying  to  cheer  her  broken 
heart — his  own  heart  breaking.     He  speaks  of  duty, 


76  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

high  and  holy  duty.  ...  A  comrade  moans  in  his 
skep.     The  boy  wakes.     The  dream  has  fled. 

And  a  father  dreams.  The  battle  is  past.  He  is 
bleeding  to  death  beneath  a  heap  of  slain — his  wife,  his 
children;  0  Gcd,  must  it  be?  He  thinks  he  sees  his 
body  tossed  into  a  ditch  along  with  other  nameless  car- 
rion. He  sees  a  wife  going  to  a  little  country  post- 
oflSce  day  after  day,  day  after  day.  But  she  gets  no 
letter,  no  news.  IMonths  wear  on.  No  news.  Years 
pass.  She  is  alone.  No  word  ever  reaches  her.  Only 
waiting,  waiting — that  is  all.  No,  not  all — death  at 
last.  The  whole  story.  A  shudder  passes  over  the 
sleeper.  Angels  turn  away  their  faces.  Only  a  com- 
mon soldier  tonight — only  common  carrion  tomorrow 
night.  Only  a  wa"ting  wife  somewhere;  only  twoscore 
years  of  widowhood,  and  then — the  grave. 

Never  mind.    The  dogs  of  war  must  be  fed. 

Three  hundred  thousand  homes.  Dreamers  in  those 
homes  as  well  as  on  the  battlefield.  For  tomorrow  is 
the  battle. 

A  wife,  a  lonely  pillow,  a  dream.  The  battle  has 
been  fought.  Night  has  fallen  once  more.  The  sun  has 
fled  in  swooning  terror  from  the  ghastly  spectacle. 
Darkness  holds  sway;  darkness  and  storm.  A  woman, 
a  wife,  herself  in  sable  garb,  is  wandering  over  the  slip- 
pery field.  Pelting  rain  in  her  face.  Her  husband  is 
among  the  slain.  She  lifts  up  each  desecrated  sanc- 
tuary of  a  human  soul — deserted  sanctuaries  now — 
gazes  into  those  blue  and  whitened  and  reddened  faces, 
if  perchance  the  lightning  glares.  Otherwise  her  ten- 
der fingers  trace  the  gory  lineaments  to  discover  if  it  is 
he.     Night  as  long  as  eternity,  a   lone  figure  of  woe, 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  77 

pitiless  storm,  an  endless  search,  a  fruitless  search. 
And  so  a  wife  dreams  on. 

Another  wife  dreams.  The  war  is  over.  A  letter 
comes,  the  husband,  the  father,  will  be  home  on  the 
morrow.  She  tells  the  children — shouts  of  glee.  The 
long  waiting  is  past.  The  morrow  comes,  an  approach- 
ing form  a  beloved  form,  a  wife  and  children  rushing 
and  shriek'ng  their  welcome,  a  fainting  embrace.  War 
only  a  horrible  memory.  .  .  .  Day  breaks  in  reality. 
Drowsy  wakefulness.  Joy!  the  dream  seems  true. 
The  awful  awakening;  it  is  the  day  of  battle. 

A  bride  dreams.  Her  wedding  day  only  a  month 
back.  They  have  just  returned  from  their  short  honey- 
moon to  begin  their  long  honeymoon.  A  home  of  their 
very  own  all  paid  for:  small  but  their  very  own,  their 
home,  his  and  hers.  Their  first  meal  together  just  fin- 
ished, all  prepared  by  her  own  hand.  It  has  been  a 
splendid  success.  How  her  husband  praises  every  dish. 
What  an  appetite  he  has.  What  love  shines  in  his  eyes 
as  he  looks  across  the  table  into  her  eyes.  How  hers 
answer  back.  ...  A  baby  cries  out  in  its  sleep.  The 
bride-mother  springs  from  her  lone  bed  in  nameless 
fright.  Ah,  no,  he  is  not  just  across  the  table  with  his 
lovelit  eyes.  He  is  away  tenting  on  the  battlefield.  To- 
morrow— the  clock  strikes  four — today,  0  God,  today 
the  battle. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  BATTLE. 

The  boy  had  been  a  lover  of  history  since  earliest 
childhood.  Anything  by  that  name  he  literally  de- 
voured, ancient  or  modern,  no  matter  what  the  nation, 
no  matter  how  dry  the  subject-matter,  how  juiceless 
the  style.  The  history  of  his  own  nation  he  knew  by 
heart.  Her  great  men  were  more  familiar  to  him  than 
the  men  whom  he  met  daily  on  the  street.  How  he  ex- 
ulted in  every  high  deed  of  patriotic  devotion  and 
valor.     How  he  gloried  in  his  country's  glory. 

"What  joy  to  die  in  a  holy  cause,  to  shed  one's  blood 
for  the  right  and  for  one 's  native  land.  How  the  story 
of  his  country's  wars  stirred  his  young  blood  and  fired 
his  youthful  imagination.  Why  hadn't  he  lived  in  the 
heroic  days  of  old?  Why  were  wars  a  thing  of  the 
past?  Why  couldn't  he  have  an  opportunity  to  prove 
his  courage  and  devotion,  to  die  if  need  be  for  the  land 
he  loved? 

War  unexpectedly  came.  How  he  openly  rejoiced. 
He  enlisted  the  first  day.  He  marched  away.  What 
holy  zeal  was  his:  to  die  for  his  country — what  glory 
to  be  compared  with  this. 

The  battle  was  on.  He  was  in  the  forefront  of  the 
thickest  fight.  Valiantly  he  fought  and  unafraid. 
Come  wounds,  come  death,  what  cared  he.  The  foe 
were  being  hard  pressed.  They  were  pushed  back 
through  the  streets  of  the  city.  He  was  in  the  column 
that  led  the  attack.     The  enemy  were  forced  across  a 

78 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  79 

narrow  bridge.  A  little  way  back  they  had  a  powerful 
concealed  battery  which  commanded  the  approaches. 
It  commanded  the  bridge.  Heedless  of  the  storm  of 
lead,  the  advancing  column  pressed  on  to  that  narrow 
bridge.  The  head  of  the  column  melted  away.  Dead 
and  wounded  piled  high.  And  he  was  among  the 
wounded,  a  leg  shattered.  But  the  battery  must  be 
taken.  The  order  rang  out :  ' '  Clear  the  bridge ! ' '  The 
hands  of  comrades  seized  dead  and  wounded  alike  and 
hurled  them  into  the  river  below. 

They  seized  him.  He  cried*  out  in  his  pain  and  ter- 
ror, begging  to  be  borne  to  a  place  of  safety;  he  was 
only  wounded,  couldn't  they  see?  He  was  not  dead; 
they  must  see,  they  must  hear,  they  must  spare  his  life ! 
Over  the  bridge  they  toss  him.  Down  beneath  its  tur- 
gid waters  he  sinks.  He  rises  to  the  surface.  He  is  an 
expert  swimmer,  but  there  is  his  broken  leg.  Even  so, 
still  he  can  swim  ashore.  He  sets  out  for  the  shore,  for 
life,  for  safety.    Life  is  sweet,  after  all. 

Dead  men  floating  all  about  him.  The  river  choked 
with  the  dead.  Livid,  terrified  faces  of  the  wounded 
all  about  him.  They  see  he  has  some  strength.  They 
clutch  his  arms,  his  body,  his  legs.  Together  they  sink, 
sink  to  rise  no  more. 

So  this  was  dying  for  one's  country. 

He  had  been  in  the  thick  of  the  bayonet  charge 
on  the  enemy's  breastworks.  Nine-tenths  of  his  com- 
rades had  fallen,  killed  or  wounded.  He  was  among 
the  fallen  beneath  a  heap  of  the  slain,  not  yet  dead. 

The  charge  was  successful.  An  opening  had  been 
made,  but  it  must  at  once  be  supported  and  followed 
up  by  a  cavalry  charge.     There   was  but  one   way  to 


80  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

reach  the  foe,  the  one  the  infantry  had  taken,  the  one 
now  paved  with  human  bodies — some  dead,  some  alive. 

The  charge  was  ordered.  On  came  the  galloping  cav- 
alry. Spongy  was  their  footing.  The  horsemen  trem- 
bled in  their  seats.  It  was  not  terror;  the  wounded 
were  writhing  beneath  iron  hoofs,  merely  that.  Horses 
slipped  and  staggered. 

The  boy  would  have  lived;  his  wounds  were  not  at 
all  dangerous.  He  might  have  gone  back  home,  years 
of  usefulness  might  have  been  his — might  have  been. 

Four  hoofs  on  his  chest — a  shudder,  then  all  was  still. 
He  had  gone  Home. 

And  so  men  went  Home  that  day.  On  distant  hills 
dumb  cattle  huddled  together;  they  saw  strange  sights, 
heard  strange  sounds.  And  dumb  terror  held  them  in 
thrall.  Birds  forsook  their  nests  and  flew  about  in 
aimless  fright  above  the  smoke  of  battle.  The  sun 
locked  down.  The  world  rolled  on  through  space  in 
its  appointed  orbit.  Watches  slowly  ticked.  Clocks 
tolled  off  the  hours.  Women  were  wringing  their 
hands  in  three  hundred  thousand  homes — and  some  of 
these  would  wring  their  hands  on  through  the  years 
till  they  should  fold  them  for  the  last  time. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AND  NIGHT  ONCE  MORE. 

The  day's  work  was  done.  The  battle  was  over.  The 
sun  had  fled,  reeling,  swooning,  falling  to  his  rest. 
Night  came  on.  What  cared  Night!  How  often  she 
had  looked  upon  the  deeds  the  children  of  earth  had 
done.     Unblinking,  unsurprised,  unafraid  Night. 

Angels  had  wept  because  the  day  was  so  long.  De- 
mons had  wept  because  the  day  was  so  short. 

In  the  morning  how  fair  the  white  homes  glistening 
in  the  sun's  soft  caresses!  How  peaceful  the  cattle 
grazing  on  a  thousand  hills !  How  green  the  grass,  how 
golden  the  grain,  how  crystal  the  brooks!  Night.  Man's 
work  done.  "Where  now  are  those  white  cottages? 
"Where  the  singing  birds?  Where  the  cattle  on  a  thou- 
sand hills?  How  red  the  grass,  how  red  the  trampled 
grain,  how  red  the  flowing  brooks! 

He  was  among  the  defeated.  Broken,  shattered,  dis- 
persed was  the  proud  and  mighty  host  of  which  he  had 
been  a  part  in  the  morning.  Their  wounded  were  now 
at  the  mercy  of  the  night  and  the  foe.  Supperless  he 
was  skulking  alone  in  the^  corner  of  a  brush-tangled 
fence.  All  night  long  he  heard  the  onrush  of  the  vic- 
tor's pursuing  cavalry,  as  they  swept  forward  in  their 
remorseless  chase.  The  battle  was  lost,  the  cause  was 
lost.  Ah,  the  terrors  of  that  night.  Suppose  he  were 
discovered,  perhaps  instant  death.  If  not,  then  prison, 
worse  than  death. 

81 


82  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

Another  squad  of  cavalry;  he  crouches  lower  still; 
they  pass  on ;  he  is  safe  once  more.  And  so  the  fright- 
ened hours  drag  by. 

When  her  husband  kissed  her  sobbing  face  good-bye 
he  told  her  he  knew  he  would  come  back  safe  and 
sound.  He  was  needed  now  at  the  front,  he  must  go. 
He  was  needed,  too,  at  home;  he  would  return  when 
the  war  was  over  and  the  other  duty  done.  She  must 
be  brave,  and  she  was  brave — brave  for  his  sake,  brave 
for  the  children's  sake.  She  believed  his  promises  to 
return  because  she  wanted  to  believe  them.  An  empty, 
lonely,  starving  heart  must  feed  itself  upon  something, 
on  memory  or  on  hope,  and  she  chose  hope.  But  the 
waiting  time — yes,  she  must  wait. 

When  he  took  leave  of  home  the  children  had  hov- 
ered near.  But  they  understood  not  its  tragic  signifi- 
cance. They  were  too  young  for  that.  Yet  something 
unknown,  mysterious,  uncanny,  had  clutched  at  their 
little  heart-strings,  and  they  wept  in  terror.  What 
meant  this  strange  sorrow  of  papa  and  mamma?  Where 
papa  going?  When  papa  come  back?  Why  mamma 
cry?  What  papa  going  to  do?  Papa  bad  make  mam- 
ma cry.  .  .  .  Hush,  little  ones;  dear  papa  has  to  go 
away.  Eass  papa  good-bye.  There,  there,  little  ones, 
don't  cry;  papa  come  back.  .  .  .  And  so  he  had  left  his 
home,  his  face  almost  blistered  by  burning  kisses,  a 
woman  and  three  little  children  at  the  gate  watching 
him  out  of  sight. 

And  night  once  more.  Night  after  the  day's  work 
was  done ;  night  after  the  battle.  Uncounted  thousands 
of  dead  husbands  and  sons  all  about  him.  Uncounted 
thousands  of    wounded  husbands  and  sons  all  about 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  83 

him.  Uncounted  thousands  of  dying  husbands  and  sons 
all  about  him — ^he  in  their  number. 

Slowly  his  blood  ebbs  away,  slowly  his  life  ebbs  away. 
Night.  Darkness.  Memory.  A  home — a  woman  at 
the  gate  with  quivering  face — children  with  frightened 
faces — farewell  embraces — promises  to  come  back  to 
them.  And  now  he  is  dying.  Oh,  what  will  she  do, 
what  will  she  do  when  the  news  comes?  He  will  not  be 
there  to  comfort  her.  No,  he  will  never  be  there  to 
comfort  her  again.  0  God,  must  it  be?  Is  this  thy 
will,  0  Father  of  all? 

*'0  God — help — my — poor  wife — comfort  her  if  thou 
— canst.  My — children — my — children — what  will  be- 
come— of — my — children. ' ' 

And  so  a  father  was  gone.  And  so  a  wife  and  chil- 
dren were  left  behind.  War  does  that  sort  of  thing, 
you  know. 

Every  night,  every  day;  yes,  every  hour,  she  com- 
mitted her  soldier-lover  unto  the  Eternal  keeping.  She 
believed  in  prayer.  It  was  her  one  only  resource  all 
the  dark  days  which  had  passed.  She  believed  that  all 
things  were  possible  to  one  who  believed  sufficiently. 
She  believed  that  if  she  prayed  earnestly  enough  her 
lover  could  never  be  harmed.  And  so  she  prayed  with 
all  her  soul  and  strength,  day  and  night. 

He,  too,  lay  on  the  field  of  death.  He,  too,  was  dy- 
ing. And  while  he  was  dying  she  was  glorying  in  the 
assurance  that  her  prayers  were  all  heard  and  an- 
swered. A  battle  had  been  fought,  she  knew.  But  had 
he  not  been  through  many  a  battle  and  come  out  un- 
harmed ?  Were  not  her  prayers  an  armor  no  bullet  or 
sword  could  pierce? 


84  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

And  so  she  lay  down  to  pleasant  dreams.  And  so  he 
lay  down  to  that  sleep  which  knows  no  waking. 

His  mind  wanders;  it  wanders  back  to  the  maiden 
he  loves.  *'Yes,  darling,  the  war  is  over.  I  am  come 
back  to  you,  back  to  your  love.  We  will  part  no  more 
forever.  Ah,  how- sweet  it  is  to  be  with  you,  just  to  be 
with  you  once  again.'* 

And  the  maiden  dreams:  *'0h,  my  lover,  my  lover! 
I  knew  God  would  keep  you  safe.  I  knew  my  prayers 
would  shield  you  from  all  harm.  Oh,  God  has  been  so 
good  to  us.*' 

And  he  answers  her:  "Yes,  I  am  here,  sweetheart. 
We  must  be  married  at  once;  our  little  home  is  all 
ready,  just  as  we  left  it  when  I  went  away." 

And  she  murmurs:  ''Yes,  married,  and  then  our 
little  home.     Oh,  life  is  so  fair!" 

"Home,"  she  echoes  again. 

In  the  morning  he  awoke  not. 

In  the  morning  she  awoke,  and  there  was  a  telegram 
from  his  comrade. 

A  youth  had  fallen  in  the  fight,  but  his  wound  not 
being  mortal  he  had  managed  to  stanch  the  flow  of 
blood.  He  was  lying  near  a  piece  of  timber,  so  during 
a  lull  in  the  conflict  in  his  part  of  the  field  he  crawled 
to  the  edge  of  the  woods  and  concealed  himself  behind 
a  huge  log.  He  knew  enough  about  surgery  to  feel 
certain  his  wound  would  not  leave  him  maimed  in  any 
way.  Life  was  lusty  in  his  veins,  and  a  few  weeks 
would  see  him  in  the  ranks  again. 

The  combat  deepened.  The  wooded  knoll  whereon 
he  lay  became  a  strategic  point.  Again  and  again  the 
tide  of  battle  rolled  back  and  forth  over  him  and  all 
about   him.      But   he    was   securely  protected  and  re- 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  85 

mained  uninjured  by  cannon  shot  or  trampling  horse. 
The  hill  was  piled  high  with  the  wounded  and  the 
slain. 

Not  until  long  after  dark  did  the  firing  cease;  then 
completely  exhausted,  and  neither  side  having  won  the 
fight,  the  soldiers  sank  to  sleep  on  their  arms  without 
daring  or  being  able  to  remove  the  wounded  to  the  rear. 

The  night  was  murky.  All  was  still  save  the  moan- 
ings  of  dying  men  and  horses.  Nothing  was  visible, 
not  even  the  uplifted,  contorted  limbs  of  dead  men  and 
dead  horses.  In  the  late  hours,  when  campfires  had  all 
burned  to  ashes  and  even  sentinels  were  sleeping  at 
their  posts,  there  crept  forth  from  the  denser  shadows 
of  the  woods  some  shapes  like  those  of  human  beings, 
but  their  motion  is  as  that  of  the  sinuous  serpent  writh- 
ing along,  body  to  earth. 

These  nameless  shapes  have  hands.  They  crawl  over 
the  dead.  They  wriggle  through  pools  of  blood.  Their 
hands  find  the  pockets  of  the  slain — those  pockets  are 
left  empty.     The  shapes  writhe  on. 

One  of  them  wriggles  up  to  the  wounded  youth  be- 
hind the  log.  lie  is  in  a  gentle  doze.  A  feeler  gropes 
out  from  the  wriggling  form  and  clutches  the  youth's 
watch.  He  wakes  with  a  start  and  seizes  watch  and 
unseen  arm.  But  that  shape  in  the  darkness  thrusts 
out  another  feeler — there  is  a  knife  in  it — a  gurgle — 
something  wet  and  warm — the  watch  is  gone — the 
shape  crawls  on. 

The  boy  never  went  back  to  the  service. 

The  last  gun  had  at  last  been  fired.  All  day  long  the 
lines  of  battle  had  swayed  backward  and  forward.  And 
as  they  thus  swayed  they  grew  ever  thinner  and  the 
heaps  of  those  who  swayed  no  more  grew  ever  higher. 


56  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

But  the  day  was  past  now.  The  soldiers  were  re- 
turning to  their  tents — some  of  them  were  returning. 
A  boy  had  reached  his.  In  the  confusion  of  the  fight 
he  had  somehow  been  separated  from  every  face  he 
knew.  But  as  he  groped  his  -^ay  back  to  the  spot 
whence  he  started  in  the  morning,  it  was  with  a  sense 
of  the  pleasure  it  would  be  to  see  his  comrades  again; 
to  see  the  familiar  faces;  to  hear  the  familiar  voices; 
to  talk  over  the  events  of  the  day  as  they  drank  to- 
gether their  steaming  coffee  by  the  campfire. 

He  reached  his  tent.  No  voices  sounded  in  his  ear. 
Profound  silence.  No  fire.  That  was  strange.  Surely 
they  couldn't  have  eaten  and  fallen  asleep  so  soon.  He 
looked  about.  No,  they  hadn't  got  back  yet.  How  late 
was  it?  Why,  it  was  ten  o'clock  already.  Surely  some 
of  them  ought  to  be  here  by  this  time.  Perhaps  they 
had  got  lost  in  the  darkness  on  the  way  back.  He 
would  start  a  fire  and  make  the  coffee,  then  wait. 
They  would  soon  be  there,  and  how  they  would  rejoice 
to  find  supper  ready  and  waiting. 

He  kindled  a  fire,  he  prepared  the  coffee,  he  sat 
down,  he  waited.  Strange  they  didn't  come  in.  Some 
of  the  boys  ought  to  be  able  to  find  the  camp.  He 
waited  longer.  He  was  becoming  impatient.  Why 
didn't  they  hurry?  He  wouldn't  wait  another  minute. 
He  lifted  a  cup  to  his  lips,  then  his  hand  paused,  it 
shook  as  though  palsied,  his  face  went  white.  It  hadn't 
occurred  to  him  before — suppose — suppose  they  never 
came  back.     And  they  never   did. 

Three  hundred  thousand  homes.  The  night  after  the 
battle.  Which  aged  parents  were  childless?  Which 
wives  were  husbandless?  Which  children  were  father- 
less? Which  maidens  robbed  forever?  Three  hundred 
thousand  homes — ^and  the  night  after  the  battle. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  AFTER  DAYS. 

The  day  after  the  battle  the  post-offices  all  over  the 
country,  in  city,  village  and  wayside  hamlet,  were 
thronged  with  multitudes  from  every  rank  in  life,  but 
all  had  this  in  common — blanched  faces,  haunted, 
sleep-starved  eyes,  drawn  and  quivering  lips.  There 
was  tottering  age  leaning  on  well-worn  cane;  there  was 
the  little  child  with  dumb  terror;  there  was  the  wife 
and  mother;  there  was  the  maiden  with  the  far-away 
look  in  her  eyes.  There  was  every  kind  of  raiment  to 
be  seen — women  in  their  silks,  women  in  their  rags — 
but  one  great  common  fear  was  the  chain  that  fettered 
them  to  every  spot  where  news  of  the  battle  could  pos- 
sibly be  had.  Invisible  ties  bound  every  heart  to  that 
fated  field.  Oh,  when  would  they  know?  When,  when? 
So  day  after  day  they  came — any  letter  yet?  Yes, 
there  was  a  letter  today — trembling  hands,  blazing  eyes, 
relief  that  left  one  faint.  Any  letter  yet?  No.  none. 
A  heart  sinks  deeper,  steps  become  slower,  more  un- 
certain. 

Day  after  day  a  maiden  hurried  to  the  office  after 
mail,  though  her  home  was  more  than  a  mile  away.  Day 
after  day  the  postmaster  sadly  shook  his  head  when  she 
inquired  at  the  window.  Her  coming  got  on  his  nerves 
— the  nerves  of  his  sympathy,  of  his  soul.  He  shud- 
dered with  dread  whenever  he  saw  her  hastening  figure 
coming  up  the  dusty   road;  he  turned  away  his    eyes 

87  r -.,:•■.,■ 


88  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

whenever  he  saw  the  tense,  eager  face  mutely  ask: 
"Any  letter  yet?'*  Tears  came  to  his  eyes  when  he  saw 
the  dumb,  quivering  hope  die  out  into  ashen  silence. 

Day  after  day  she  came.  Day  after  day  she  went 
away,  empty-handed,  empty-hearted. 

Her  lover  was  in  the  battle.  The  postmaster  under- 
stood. She  was  a  favorite  in  the  village,  so  was  her 
lover.  Finally  a  letter  came.  How  the  postmaster's 
heart  bounded  with  gladness.  He  wouldn't  have  to 
shake  his  head  that  day.  He  wouldn't  have  to  see  again 
that  quivering  lip,  that  ashen  face.  He  glances  out  of 
the  window,  he  can  hardly  wait  her  coming.  He  is 
sharing  her  delight,  her  relief.  Why  doesn't  she  hurry 
this  day  of  all  days?  He  picks  up  the  letter  again.  He 
scans  the  address.    Why,  it  is  in  a  strange  handwriting. 

What  can  that  mean?    Does  it  mean the  letter  falls 

from  his  nerveless  hand.  How  can  he  give  it  to  her? 
Mechanically  he  stoops  down,  picks  it  up,  and  lays  it 
aside. 

He  looks  out  of  the  window,  a  maiden's  hastening 
figure,  a  tense  face,  an  eager  step  on  the  threshhold. 
He  thrusts  out  the  letter  as  a  thing  of  death,  then  turns 
around  and  sits  down  weakly. 

A  little  cry  of  joy,  a  great  cry  of  anguish,  the  death 
of  a  dream.  He  was  among  the  slain.  And  she?  She 
was  among  the  living. 

An  aged  couple  sitting  by  the  evening  fire.  They 
have  waited  many  a  day — are  waiting  still.  How  the 
wind  moans.  How  desolately  the  rain  beats  against  the 
uncurtained  windows.    How  black  it  is  without. 

"Perhaps  there  will  be  a  letter  tonight."  It  was  the 
gray-haired  old  man  who  spoke.  "Of  course  he  has 
been  on  the  march  ever  since  the  battle;  but  he  knows 
we  will  be  anxious  to  hear." 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  89 

**Yes,  there  might  be  one/'  the  sad-faced  wife  gently 
made  reply. 

"I  guess  I  will  go  to  the  office  and  see/'  And  stiffly 
the  old  man  rose. 

''Don't  you  think  you  better  wait  till  morning, 
father?  It  is  a  mile  and  a  half  there  and  the  storm  is 
growing  worse.  It  might  be  bad  for  your  rheumatism 
to  venture  out  in  the  rain." 

''I  don't  mind  the  rain." 

''Well,  as  you  think  best." 

And  so  the  old  man  tottered  away  into  the  night,  for 
his  boy  had  been  in  the  great  fight,  and  he  hadn't 
heard  since. 

"Any  mail  tonight?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  didn't  expect  any;  just  thought  I  would 
drop  in  and  see."    Out  into  the  night  and  storm  again. 

An  aged  face — a  woman's  face — pressed  against  a 
curtainless  window — rain  beating  against  the  glass, 
cold,  pitiless  rain,  rain  and  darkness.  A  stumbling 
step  off  there  in  the  night  somewhere.  Out  into  the 
darkness  bareheaded,  without  a  wrap. 

"Any  mail?" 

"No." 

They  sat  in  silence  about  the  dying  fire  awhile,  then 
to  bed.    And  the  storm  moaned. 

Day  after  day  a  bowed  figure  that  seemed  to  be 
growing  shorter  and  shorter  went  to  a  little  country 
post-office,  and  then  it  tottered  back.  Day  after  day 
a  silent  shake  of  the  head,  then  feeble  steps — four  of 
them — back  to  a  little  house.  Weeks  wore  past — the 
same  silent  tragedy  each  day.  At  last  the  old  man  re- 
ceived a  paper.  He  tore  off  the  wrapper  at  the  office, 
borrowed   some   ill-fitting      glasses     and     scanned      a 


90  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

marked  column.  There  was  a  list  of  the  killed  in  a 
certain  regiment.  He  read  on  till  he  came  to  a  name 
to  which  a  fair-haired  child  used  to  answer  up  in  that 
little  home  on  the  hill. 

He  got  back  home,  he  never  knew  just  how.  A  wom- 
an at  the  gate.  Once  she  was  a  bride — his  own — how 
fair  she  was  then.  She  was  a  mother;  how  radiant  she 
was  with  the  babe  on  her  bosom.  The  child  was  rac- 
ing about  the  home;  how  her  eyes  devoured  its  every 
motion.  Now  she  was  old,  and  feeble,  and  gray,  and 
the  little  boy — where  was  he? 

**Any  letter  r' 

The  old  man  lifted  his  eyes  to  hers.  And  then  she 
turned  and  went  into  the  house. 

The  father  was  not  to  blame.  Little  he  dreamed  of 
war  when  he  led  her  to  the  marriage  altar.  But  the 
war  came  and  he  had  to  go.  And  she  was  left  behind ; 
it  is  always  that  way  for  the  woman;  alone  and  yet 
not  alone.  He  was  in  that  awful  fight.  And  he  stayed 
there — that  is,  his  body  did. 

A  few  days  later  she  received  word.  A  few  hours 
later  a  child  was  born.  The  child  never  looked  into  a 
father's  face.  The  father  never  looked  into  the  child's 
face. 

The  wife  journeyed  on  alone. 

His  body  was  recovered  by  his  comrade  and  sent  back 
to  his  wife  and  children  for  burial.  The  wife  was  no- 
tified in  advance.  The  children  were  too  young  to  re- 
alize what  death  meant.  When  the  wife  saw  the  wagon 
approaching  the  house  bringing  her  dead  to  her,  she 
hurried  the  children  from  the  room  that  they  might  not 
witness  her  first  paroxysms  of  grief. 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  91 

In  cold,  quiet  tones  she  directed  the  neighbors  where 
to  deposit  the  casket,  and  then  silently  dismissed  them. 
The  moment  they  were  out  of  the  house  she  shut  and 
locked  the  doors,  uncovered  the  sheeted  face,  and  fell 
on  her  knees  before  God,  with  only  her  dead  husband 
to  bear  witness. 

An  hour  passed.  In  the  room  above  shouts  of  child- 
ish glee.  In  the  room  below  a  father  and  a  mother — 
the  father  dead.  They  were  too  young  to  know;  she 
bore  it  alone.  How  peaceful  the  dead  face — doesn't  he 
know?  Doesn't  he  care?  Silently  he  sleeps  on.  The 
shouts  of  his  chillren  bring  no  smile  to  his  impassive 
lips ;  the  anguish  of  his  wife  no  tears  to  his  eyes ;  those 
days  are  gone — gone  forever.  And  so  she  kept  vigil 
with  her  unresponsive  dead. 

At  last  she  glances  at  the  clock;  it  is  long  past  the 
hour  for  the  evening  meal.  Soon  the  children  will  be 
clamoring  for  their  supper.  And  must  they  eat?  Can 
they  eat?  Can  one  eat  with  that  lying  in  the  house? 
Yes,  for  they  did  not  know.  Well,  it  was  better  that 
they  didn't.  The  mother  finally  rouses  herself  and 
goes  absently  to  the  kitchen. 

The  little  ones  are  tiring  of  their  play.  They  are  get- 
ting hungry.  They  descend  the  stairs  and  search  for 
mamma.  They  see  an  open  door;  mamma  must  be  in 
there.  They  rush  in.  Mamma  is  not  there  but  papa 
is.  They  were  not  expecting  to  see  him,  and  so  for  a 
moment  they  pause.  Then  with  incoherent  shouts  of 
welcoming  gladness  they  rush  forward  and  leap  upon 
his  breast  and  cover  his  face  with  kisses.  For  a  mo- 
ment in  their  ecstasy  of  delight  they  discover  nothing 
amiss. 

Then  they  begin  to  wonder  why  his  arms  do  not 
tighten  about  them;  why  he  doesn't    speak;    why    he 


92  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

doesn't  kiss  their  little  lips.  They  draw  back  and 
silently  survey  him. 

"Papa  asleep.     Don't  know  we  here." 

**Yes,  papa  sleep.    Papa  tired — poor  papa." 

"Let's  s 'prise  papa.  Me  tickle  papa's  nose,"  and  a 
little  head  brushes  curly  hair  across  his  face  as  in  the 
dear  days  that  are  gone. 

"Me  t'ink  papa  just  'tending  to  be  s'eep.  Me  tickle 
papa,"  and  little  fingers  bore  into  the  unheeding  bos- 
om of  the  sleeper. 

*  *  Papa,  papa !  Wake  up !  Here  we  are.  Papa,  papa ! 
Don 't  sleep  any  more !  Don 't  you  hear  us  ?  Don 't  you 
love  your  little  girls  any  more?  Papa,  papa!"  And 
tears  well  up  and  overflow  four  shining  little  eyes. 

IMeehanically  the  mother  has  prepared  the  evening 
meal.  She  goes  to  the  stairs  and  calls.  No  answer. 
She  calls  again.  No  answer.  She  goes  out  into  the 
yard  and  looks  about  the  house,  no  golden  little  heads 
in  sight.  She  re-enters  the  house  and  passes  that  open 
door — she  must  take  one  more  look.  She  comes  to  the 
threshold  and  stops.  Before  her  stand  two  little  girls 
transfixed  with  grief  and  wordless  fear,  gazing  upon  a 
dead  face — their  papa's.  They  have  not  heard  the 
mother  call.  They  have  not  heard  the  mother's  step. 
For  a  moment  she  can  find  no  voice;  at  last  a  strange 
voi .«  is  heard — somebody's  voice — could  it  be  hers? — 
has  cried  out,  "Children!" 

The  little  ones  wheel  about  and  rush  to  the  mother 
hysterically  sobbing:  "0,  mamma;  papa  is  asleep!  We 
can't  wake  him  up.  O,  mamma,  mamma!  wake  papa 
up;  please  do.  We  want  to  love  him.  We  have  been 
kissing  him  and  he  don't  kiss  us  at  all.  Don't  papa 
love  us  now?    Why  papa  won't  wake  up?" 

And  what  answer  could  she  make  ? 


Part  III. 


AFTER  THE  WAR 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  HOME-COMING. 

He  had  been  in  the  army  four  long  years.  Not  once 
had  he  taken  a  furlough.  He  had  not  received  a  sin- 
gle wound  though  he  had  been  in  over  fifty  pitched  bat- 
tles, and  under  fire  more  than  three  times  that  num- 
ber. But  the  war  was  at  last  over.  He  had  received 
his  honorable  discharge.  He  was  already  on  the  way 
home.  Home — how  his  heart  grew  soft  when  his  lips 
pronounced  the  word;  and  his  lips  did  pronounce  the 
word  over  and  over  again.  He  had  received  but  few 
letters  from  home  during  his  absence;  still  this  had 
not  worried  him  any,  for  none  of  the  home  folks  were 
any  hands  to  write.  The  last  letter  was  several  months 
back  now. 

Within  twenty-four  hours  he  would  reach  that  loved 
spot — the  home  where  he  was  born  and  reared,  where 
he  had  played  as  a  child,  where  the  holiest  memories 
life  knows  were  linked  with  things  visible  and  material 
— a  house — a  home,  barns,  trees,  creeks,  hills,  a  well, 
gardens,  fields,  woods. 

His  discharge  had  come  three  days  earlier  than  he 
expected,  but  he  had  not  written  home  about  this.  He 
would  take  them  by  surprise.  By  walking  crosslots 
over  the  hills  and  through  the  woods— ^  distance  of 
some  three  miles^ — ^he  could  so  time  his  arrival  as  to 
reach  the  house  just  as  they  were  sitting  down  to  sup- 
per. He  saw  the  picture,  every  detail  of  it.  The  old 
clock  on  the  mantel  shelf ;  the  kitchen  stove ;  the  cheap, 

95 


96  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

dear  pictures  on  the  walls,  the  faded  carpet,  the  rusty 
sofa — home,  a  king's  palace,  royal  splendor  and  beauty. 

He  counts  the  faces — all  there.  Father,  mother, 
younger  brother,  two  little  sisters — how  they  must  have 
grown  since  he  went  away.  He  would  approach  the 
house  from  behind  the  bam.  He  would  burst  in  upon 
them  just  as  father  finished  asking  a  blessing  upon  the 
evening  meal.  What  a  noble  face  father  has!  He 
hadn't  seen  one  like  it  in  four  long  years. 

Never  a  youth  loved  home  more  than  this  one.  It 
was  his  whole  world.  He  had  never  been  fifty  miles 
away  from  it  nor  forty-eight  hours  absent  until  he 
heard  his  country's  piteous  cry  for  his  help,  and  he 
had  gone  forth  with  leaden  steps  yet  unafraid  heart. 
For  four  years  the  dull,  homesick  ache  had  lain  in  his 
bosom.  Plome  was  his  last  thought  every  night  as  he 
rolled  himself  in  his  blankets  under  the  stars;  home 
was  his  first  thought  every  morning  as  he  awoke  to  the 
days  that  might  have  no  night — rather  an  endless  night 
— for  him;  home,  he  thought  of  it  in  the  smoke  of 
battle;  he  thought  of  it  in  the  midst  of  the  bayonet 
charge;  he  thought  of  it  when  the  dead  lay  in  wind- 
rows like  the  mown  grass  on  his  father's  farm. 

Would  the  war  never  be  over?  It  was  over  now, 
and  every  turn  of  the  mighty  wheels,  every  throb  of 
that  iron  heart  were  bringing  him  nearer  home. 

Home?  What  was  home?  Dear  faces?  Yes,  they 
were  home,  in  part.  In  part?  Yes,  in  part,  for  home 
included  even  more  than  these.  It  included  the  plain 
little  white,  house,  the  plain  furniture,  the  weather- 
beaten  barns,  the  pear  trees  and  apple  orchard,  the  old 
beech  with  the  thick,  low  branches  just  made  for  boys 
to  climb. 


J\ND  THIS  IS  WAR  97 

He  had  to  change  cars  at  one  station.  The  next  train, 
the  one  he  was  to  take,  was  three  hours  late.  How 
could  he  ever  stand  it!  And  he  would  be  late  for 
supper!  Hurry  as  he  would  over  the  hills,  it  would 
be  nine  o'clock  before  he  could  reach  the  door  of  that 
little  house. 

The  time  passed  some  way.  It  always  does.  He  has 
just  reached  the  summit  of  the  hill  that  overlooks  the 
home  valley.  It  is  quarter  to  nine.  Darkness  has  Ion? 
since  fallen.  With  what  rapture  of  expectancy  he  lifts 
his  eyes  to  see  a  little  light  flickering  down  in  that  val- 
ley at  a  spot  his  heart  knows  so  well.  Why.  in  densest 
night  without  any  light  in  the  window  at  all,  his  eyes 
would  unerringly  rest  upon  the  precise  spot  where  home 
is — home.  He  looks — no  light.  That's  strange.  Per- 
haps the  night  is  too  bright  for  a  lamp  to  show  so  far. 
No,  that  can't  be  it.  The  night  is  rather  dark.  Alight 
in  the  window  would  show  afar. 

He  looks  up  and  down  the  valley — not  a  glimmer  any- 
where. Well,  it  is  rather  late.  Farmers  are  abed.  He 
hurries  on,  but  a  strange  premonitory  uneasiness  is 
creeping  into  his  bosom  and  it  grows  chill.  But  soon 
he  will  be  pounding  on  the  door  and  then  what  a  sur- 
prise for  all — what  a  welcome!  And  a  little  ecstasy 
shakes  his  whole  being.  He  jumps  a  little  stream — ^he 
had  waded  in  that  stream  when  a  boy.  In  its  sparkling 
waters  he  had  caught  his  first  fish.  What  a  home  feel- 
ing comes  over  him. 

But  where  is  the  orchard?  That's  strange!  It  was 
just  the  other  side  of  the  brook.  Why  doesn't  he  come 
to  the  barn?  He  must  have  crossed  the  creek  at  a  dif- 
ferent place  from  what  he  had  thought.  A  little  vexa- 
tion stirs  him;  he  didn't  suppose  he  could  be  fooled 


98  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

about  a  single  square  foot  on  the  whole  farm  even  at 
night.  But  why  doesn't  the  house  show  up?  Sure- 
ly it  isn't  dark  enough  to  conceal  that,  near  as  he  now 
is.  Strange  he  doesn't  find  house  or  barn  or  orchard. 
Can  it  be  he  got  twisted  coming  through  the  dense 
woods  on  the  hill,  and  is  in  another  locality  altogether? 
Perish  the  thought.  Such  an  idea  is  treason  to  his 
heart. 

But  what  is  wrong?  Something,  surely?  The  creek 
seemed  the  same,  the  lay  of  the  land  the  same;  but 
that  is  all.  The  barn — it  is  gone.  Gone  the  old  beech 
tree!  Gone  the  orchard!  Gone  the  pear  trees!  Gone 
the  garden  fence !  Gone  the  shade  trees.  Where  are  the 
home-folks?    Gone,  too,  but  wherip? 

What  means  this,  his  benumbed  brain  asks  itself. 

A  quivering  flash  of  thought  shoots  athwart  his 
mind's  murky  night — there  has  been  a  war. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ONE  WHO  REMEMBERED. 

It  was  a  bleak  November  day.  The  sky  was  cold  and 
leaden.  Gusts  of  wind  tossed  the  dead  leaves  in  home- 
less, restless  heaps,  only  to  scatter  them  again  and 
again.    The  branches  of  the  trees  were  bare  and  cold. 

An  occasional  flake  of  snow  fell,  mute  herald  of  Win- 
ter's oncoming  kingship  and  white  desolation.  A  stran- 
ger was  riding  along  the  highway  wrapped  up  to  his  ears 
to  ward  off  the  pitiless  assault  of  the  cutting  wind.  As 
he  rides  along  busy  with  his  own  thoughts  his  attention 
is  suddenly  arrested  by  the  sight  of  the  swaying  tops 
of  some  tall  spruces  by  the  wayside — a  glance  at  the 
ground — cold,  white  shafts  of  marble  chill  his  blood 
still  more.  God's  acre  in  the  country!  How  many 
stones  are  there !  How  sparsely  the  community  is  popu- 
lated, but  how  thick  the  sleepers  lie  here — and  how 
quiet. 

And  by  each  stone  there  has  once  stood  a  little  group 
of  country  folk  in  sable  garb  of  sorrow,  and  each  foot 
of  the  soil  of  this  sacred  resting  place  of  the  dead  has 
been  bedewed  many  a  time  by  what  salt  tears.  And 
here  heads  have  reverently  bowed  down,  and  here 
prayers  have  gone  upward — was  there  One  who  heard? 

But  what  is  that  object  by  yonder  stone?  Why,  it 
is  a  woman's  form.  Yes,  a  woman's — aged,  wrinkled, 
white-haired,  and  feeble.  There  is  a  shawl,  a  faded 
shawl,  thrown  over  head  and  shoulders.  What  can 
that  bowed  form  be  doing  in  this  bleak  place  this  bleak 

99 


*- 


^ 


100  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

day?  The  woman  has  a  pail.  She  seems  to  be  scrub- 
bing that  stone  by  her  side.  Yes,  that  is  what  she  is 
doing — scrubbing  that  stone. 

The  stranger  stops  his  horse  some  distance  away. 
Evidently  he  has  not  been  noticed.  The  trembling 
woman,  trembling  with  age  and  shivering  with  cold, 
completes  her  task.  She  straightens  up — that  is, 
straightens  up  as  much  as  she  can.  She  will  never 
be  quite  straight  again;  those  days  are  past.  They 
don't  return.  She  silently  surveys  the  stone  before 
her.  Her  fingers  touch  it  caressingly.  She  wipes  her 
eyes,  then  slowly  passes  out  of  that  God's  acre  and 
away  across  the  fields  out  of  sight. 

The  stranger  drives  on  a  few  rods,  stops  and  hitches 
his  horse,  then  reverently  approaches  that  glistening 
stone.  It  was  the  year  1895,  thirty  years  after  the 
close  of  the  war.  With  misty  eyes  he  reads  the  chiseled 
letters.  A  boy 's  name  is  there ;  then  the  words :  * '  Killed 
at  Cold  Harbor,  1865." 

The  mother  had  once  more  cleaned  the  moss  from  the 
marble  and  so  there  was  one  who  remembered. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
A  child's  plaything. 

Their  home  was  in  the  valley  where  the  battle  had 
been  fought,  but  that  was  fifty  years  ago,  so  all  traces 
of  its  devastations  were  long  since  obliterated.  They 
were  happy  in  their  little  home,  and  little  they  thought 
of  the  blood  which  had  been  shed  on  the  acres  that  were 
now  their  own.  Men  had  died  there,  hundreds  of  them. 
Blcod  had  flowed  in  crimson  streams  as  large  as  the 
little  brook  which  sang  by  their  cottage  door  all  of  a 
summer's  day. 

Time  and  nature  had  done  their  work.  The  ugly 
gashes  are  all  healed.  Men's  memor'es  are  short.  Homes 
are  fair  where  war  was  red,  and  pasture  lands  lie  smil- 
ing languidly  in  the  golden  sunlight. 

Two  children  are  at  play  in  a  thick  clump  of  cedars 
— a  very  paradise  for  little  folks.  Those  cedars  were 
there  fifty  years  ago — or  others  like  them  on  the  same 
spot.  Men  in  uniforms  had  crouched  here  where  the 
children  were  now  so  carelessly,  so  joyously,  at  play. 
Cannons  had  been  trained  on  this  very  spot.  A  bayonet 
charge  had  been  made  on  the  sharpshooters  hidden 
aTong  the  cedars.  Death  had  held  high  carnival  here. 
But  this  was  a  twice-told  tale. 

One  day  when  poking  around  an  old  stump  one  of 
the  children  unearthed  something  grayish-white,  with 
greenish  patches.  What  a  fnd!  It  would  make  a  new 
pl-^y+hin^i'.  It  was  hcllow;  there  f  re,  it  would  be 
fine  for  holding  things.      They  could  dig  with  it,  too. 

101 


1(^  AU^-  THIS  IS  WAR 

Why,  it  would  be  useful  in  a  hundred  different  ways. 
And  they  laughed  in  their  glee  as  they  played  with  the 
new  toy.  In  what  seemed  to  be  the  front  there  were 
two  round  holes,  and  the  children  stuck  their  fingers 
in  the  holes  and  laughed  a  merry  laugh. 

Forty  years  before  this  an  aged  mother  in  a  distant 
State  had  gone  down  to  her  grave  in  sorrow.  Where, 
where,  where,  was  lying  her  noble  boy,  the  boy  that 
once  a  babe  used  to  sleep  on  her  breast,  the  boy  that  as 
a  little  child  flooded  the  whole  house  with  the  sunshine 
of  his  smile  and  the  melody  of  his  laughter! 

And  even  while  the  children  are  playingwith  their  new 
toy  and  the  cedars  are  a-tremble  with  their  hysterical 
shrieks  of  laugher,  a  lone  woman,  past  three  score  years 
and  ten,  in  garments  of  grief  that  she  has  never  laid 
aside,  is  sitting  by  her  desolate  hearthstone,  desolate 
now  as  fifty  years  ago — aye,  ever  more  desolate  as  the 
lone  years  have  come  and  gone. 

And  as  she  sits  there  and  the  children  play  there,  she 
repeats  over  and  over  again  these  words:  **0h,  if  I 
could  only  be  laid  by  his  dear  side,  how  gentle  the 
grave  would  be.  0  God,  where  is  he,  the  husband  of 
my  youth,  my  bridegroom,  my  lover?  Must  we  sleep 
apart  till  the  resurrection?    0  God,  must  it  be? 

And  while  she  calls  upon  her  God,  this  desolate,  bro- 
ken-hearted, forsaken  bride — bride  fifty  years  ago — the 
children  thrust  their  fingers  through  those  round  holes 
in  their  new  toy  and  shout  again  with  laughter.  A  fair- 
faced  young  mother  comes  to  the  door  of  a  near-by 
house,  listens,  smiles,  and  goes  back  to  her  household 
task. 

I  wonder  if  other  children  as  merry  as  these  will  be 
playing  with  their  skulls  on  some  distant  battlefield 
fifty  years  hence — and  some  woman  sitting  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

AN  OLD  SOLDIER. 

The  other  day  I  saw  an  old  soldier,  perhaps  seventy- 
five  years  of  age,  slowly  tottering  toward  what  he  called 
home.  His  step  was  feeble  and  uncertain;  his  hair 
long,  thin,  white,  and  unkempt;  his  beard  yellow  and 
seraggly;  his  hat  old,  rusty,  battered,  and  sagging  to 
one  side;  his  coat  dirty  and  ragged;  his  trousers 
patched  and  baggy ;  his  face  bleared,  his  nose  red,  his 
eye  faded  and  watery. 

I  entered  his  home ;  the  floors  were  bare,  the  windows 
curtainless,  the  walls  dingy,  the  furniture  scanty  and 
broken.  It  was  chill  there.  The  fire  was  low  and 
feeble,  the  larder  empty. 

I  looked  over  the  years  he  had  traveled — forty  un- 
broken years  of  intemperance,  poverty,  loss  of  position 
after  position,  ever  sinking  lower  and  lower,  until  at 
last  this  pitiable  wreck  of  manhood  before  me — old, 
feeble,  friendless,  besotted — a  pensioner  on  the  nation's 
bounty,  that  pension  all  going  to  the  rumseller's   till. 

I  saw  back  of  these  past  forty  years  a  young  man, 
one  of  the  bravest  of  the  brave,  the  color-bearer  of  his 
regiment.  I  saw  him  carrying  the  old  flag  unflinchingly 
in- storm  of  lead  and  iron  where  hundreds  were  going 
down  like  mown  grass  all  about  him.  I  saw  him  the 
first  to  scale  the  ramparts  of  the  enemy.  I  saw  him 
the  uncrowned  hero  of  a  hundred  fights.  I  saw  him  a 
youth  of  flashing  eye  and  flaming  patriotism — tall,  ath- 
letic, of  heroic  mold  physically  and  morally.    I  saw  him 

103 


104  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

taking  his  first  glass  of  liquor — a  government  ration — 
after  a  weary  day's  march.  And  then  I  looked  at  the 
old  man  before  me.  Was  this  that  youth?  Is  this  the 
same  person?  Yes,  the  same — and  yet  not  the  same. 
And  this  was  war — glorious  war. 

I  saw  back  of  the  soldier  a  boy  stepping  across  the 
invisible  line  which  separates  youth  from  manhood — 
clear-eyed,  proud,  ambitious,  all-conquering  youth. 
There  was  no  ordinary  prize  of  life  that  was  not  easily 
within  the  reach  of  his  industry  and  integrity.  And 
then  I  looked  at  the  old  man  before  me. 

I  saw  back  of  the  youth  and  boy  a  babe  on  a  young 
mother's  breast,  a  laughing,  blue-eyed  babe.  I  saw  the 
mother  look  into  the  eyes  of  that  babe,  and  I  caught 
a  fleeting  glimpse  of  heaven  in  four  eyes  on  earth. 
And  then  I  looked  at  the  old  man  before  me.  Could  it 
be  that  this  old  man  was  once  a  babe  on  a  young  moth- 
er's breast?  And  here  he  was  at  seventy-five — here  he 
was  what  he  was.     And  this  was  war — glorious  war. 

I  wonder  if  his  mother  ever  sees  him  now.  I  wonder 
if  he  will  ever  see  his  mother  again. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE    LITTLE    COTTAGE     BY    THE     WAYSIDE. 

She  was  now  well  past  seventy — a  maiden  still.  She 
lived  alone  in  a  little  cottage  by  the  wayside.  For 
years  she  had  lived  alone.  An  aged  mother  had  died 
long  ago;  an  older  sister  a  few  years  later  followed  the 
mother  to  her  rest;  brothers  were  married  and  away 
with  families  and  cares  of  their  own.  They  were  old 
men  now  with  children  and  grandchildren  gild'ng  and 
empurpling  and  haloing  the  years  of  their  setting 
sun.  And  she  was  alone  in  her  little  cottage  by  the 
wayside,  alone  with  her  memories  and  her  fancies. 

It  was  not  the  kind  of  life  she  had  dreamed  for  her- 
self fifty  years  ago,  when  the  dew  of  youth  was  on  her 
cheek.  She  had  a  lover  then.  The  war  came,  he  went 
away;  he  never  came  back;  and  so  she  lived  on  in  the 
little  cottage  by  the  wayside. 

She  had  always  been  shy,  even  as  a  school-girl  and 
maiden.  As  the  years  came  and  went  she  became  ever 
more  retiring  and  reserved.  Only  children  could  fully 
draw  her  out  and  open  her  heart.  Friends  dropped 
away  one  by  one.     They  were  taken  and  she  was  left. 

Of  late  she  had  been  growing  feebler,  and  the  neigh- 
bors who  dropped  in  from  time  to  time  saw  that  her 
last  illness  had  come.  Under  various  pretexts,  and 
against  her  protests,  they  managed  so  that  some  one 
of  them  was  with  her  most  of  the  time. 

As  the  end  drew  near  her  mind  would  wander  from 
105 


106  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

time  to  time;  and  she  would  talk  to  her  soldier-lover, 
at  one  time  as  though  it  were  the  evening  of  their  be- 
trothal; at  another  time  they  would  be  planning  their 
future  home;  again  it  was  their  last  evening  together 
and  they  were  saying  farewell  just  before  he  left  her 
forever;  still  again  she  would  talk  to  him  as  though  he 
were  present,  an  old  man — as  though  all  their  dreams 
of  wedded  life  had  come  true.  How  her  face  lighted 
up  with  happiness  as  she  prattled  on.  The  neighbors 
had  never  seen  her  look  like  that  before. 

All  this,  however,  they  could  understand;  they  had 
known,  every  one  had  known,  that  her  lover  had  gone 
away.  They  knew  that  other  lovers  had  come  to  woo 
in  the  after  years,  but  that  none  had  ever  been  permit- 
ted to  tell  his  tale.  Yet  there  was  something  in  her 
talk  that  none  did  understand.  She  often  spoke  the 
names  of  others — names  of  persons  who  had  never  been 
known  in  the  community.  These  seemed  to  be  the 
constant  topic  of  conversation  between  her  and  the 
husband  she  imagined  by  her  side.  She  always  called 
these  others  by  their  first  names,  or  by  pet  names,  and 
so  no  clue  to  their  identity  could  be  discovered.  And 
so  those  about  her  did  not  understand. 

But  after  she  was  dead,  then  they  understood.  They 
found  her  wedding-dress — the  dress  she  never  wore — 
carefully  packed  away.  But  this  was  not  all  they 
found.  With  it  they  found  complete  suits  of  baby 
clothes  which  she  had  made  from  time  to  time  during 
the  years  since  the  war.  These  she  had  made,  these  she 
could  not  help  but  make,  to  deaden  the  ache  in  her 
yearning,  empty,  mother-hands. 

And  so  while  the  world  saw  only  a  shy,  lonely,  rath- 
er prosaic  single  woman  of  sweet,  sad  face,  going   si- 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  107 

lently  about  among  them,  her  heart  was  living  in  a 
dream-world  of  her  own  creation.  And  thus  on  the 
husks  of  fancy  she  strove  to  nourish  as  best  she  could 
her  starving  mother-heart,  and  thus  she  busied  her 
starving  mother-hands. 

I  wonder  if  there  have  been  many  women  in  the 
world  like  that. 

I  wonder  if  these  childless  mothers  will  be  childless 
over  There. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  ROSE-COLORED  GOWN. 

She  was  in  her  room  hastily  dressing.  She  put  on 
her  rose-colored  gown  because  he  had  requested  it  the 
night  before — the  night  of  their  betrothal.  She  was 
adorning  herself  now  to  see  him  off — off  to  war.  Her 
hands  were  trembling,  her  heart  wildly  fluttering.  She 
glances  at  her  mirror,  her  face  is  pale,  tears  are  in  her 
eyes.  That  will  never  do.  She  must  be  brave  for  his 
sake — she  must  be  brave  lest  she  betray  their  secret, 
their  secret  which  is  not  to  be  known  until  he  comes 
back  from  the  war.  She  dashes  the  tears  from  her  eyes, 
puts  a  rose  in  her  hair,  rubs  her  pale  cheeks  a  moment, 
and  then  descends  the  stairs. 

There  is  a  tumult  of  .ioyous  greetings  rollinsj  up  the 
street.  She  glances  in  the  direction  of  the  noi'e.  ani 
then  she  understands;  nnd  the  light  grows  brighter  in 
her  eyes,  and  her  heart  beats  high  in  its  happiness,  sni 
her  pale  face  flushes  with  love  and  pride.  She  might 
have  known,  it  is  her  lover  aDproachinsr.  All  the  b^'ys 
of  the  town  are  about  him,  followiner  him,  and  shout- 
ing their  greetings  and  good  wishes ;  for  he  is  their  hero 
— their  ideal — a  handsome  youth,  brave,  clean,  true, 
athletic,  jovial,  a  leader  in  every  sport. 

Aged  women  love  to  catch  his  sunny  smile;  and  he 
has  one  for  all,  the  lowliest  as  well  as  the  richest.  Men 
speak  enthusiastically  of  him  and  prophesy  a  brilliant 
future.  Mothers  hold  him  up  as  a  modol  for  th^ir 
sons.    He  is  without  a  single  enemy  or  ill-wisher.    His 

108 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  109 

friends  are  all  who  know  him,  from  the  oldest  man  to 
the  youngest  child. 

No  youth  like  him  in  all  the  village.  And  so  a 
maiden  in  a  rose-colored  gown — of  her  betrothal  of  the 
evening  before — with  a  rose  in  her  hair,  watches  the 
royal  progress  of  this  regal  youth  as  his  steps  are 
turned  toward  her  gate.  What  a  kingly  form  and  car- 
riage; what  a  noble  face;  what  a  character  and  mind 
to  match  face  and  form — so  she  muses,  and  such  was 
truth. 

He  tarries  a  moment  at  her  gate,  she  comes  blushing 
forth  to  join  the  throng  of  old  and  young  about  him; 
his  journey  to  the  depot  is  a  triumphal  progress. 

Other  young  men,  his  comrades,  are  going,  too, 
moved  by  his  example.  With  each  is  a  little  group  of 
relatives,  and  friends  greet  them  kindly,  pleasantly, 
but  turn  from  them  unconsciously  to  smile  again  at 
him,  the  leader,  the  pride  of  the  whole  village. 

At  the  last  moment  he  turns  once  more  to  speak  to 
her,  to  hold  her  hand,  to  murmur  her  name;  but  a 
surge  of  admirers  catches  him  from  her  side,  a  chorus 
of  cheers  drowns  his  voice.  A  pang  of  jealousy  and  a 
thrill  of  pride  strive  for  mastery  in  her  wildly  flutter- 
ing heart. 

The  train  rolls  in,  he  struggles  free,  mounts  the  step 
of  the  car,  searches  the  crowd  about  him  with  piercing 
eyes,  they  catch  hers,  soften,  and  then  he  disappears^ 
and  the  train  rolls  away.  She  goes  back  to  her  home ; 
and  waits. 

Four  years  pass— pass  some  way.  Other  youths  who 
went  out  from  that  same  village  had  already  been  back 
several  weeks.  Why  doesn't  he  return?   Why,  oh  why, 


110  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

does  he  tarry?  He  has  not  once  been  wounded;  he 
has  not  seen  a  sick  day;  why  doesn't  he  hurry  to  her 
side?  Ah,  if  he  only  knew  how  she  loves  him.  If  he 
only  knew  how  hard  it  is  to  wait. 

And  there  was  another  strange  thing.  At  first  his 
letters  came  regularly  and  surprisingly  frequent.  But 
as  the  war  drew  toward  a  close  they  became  rarer  and 
rarer,  and  were  ever  more  brief.  What  little  he  did 
write  had  completely  lost  its  old  ring.  What  could  be 
the  matter? 

During  these  years  his  mother  had  died  and  he  had 
now  no  home  to  come  back  to,  so  others  did  not  wonder 
particularly  at  his  not  returning — they  had  never 
guessed  her  secret.  So  there  was  one — only  one — ^who 
wondered    at  his  tarrying. 

At  last  he  came,  unexpectedly  to  her,  for  he  had  not 
written.  Her  first  knowledge  of  his  arrival  was  the 
eager  shouts  of  the  boys  in  the  streets  calling  to  one 
another  that  he  was  in  town,  had  just  got  off  at  the 
station.  In  five  minutes  the  entire  village  knew  it,  she 
among  the  last. 

It  was  strange.  She  thinks — tries  to  think — it  was  to 
give  her  a  glad  surprise.  She  llies  to  her  room  and 
again  hastily  and  with  trembling  hands,  puts  on  the 
rose-colored  gown,  he  so  'praised  four  years  before,  the 
gown  that  ha.wanted-her  to  wear  the  day  he  went  away. 
It  shall  be  .th^  gawn:«he  first  sees  her  in  as  he  comes 
back — perhaps  he  will  remember.  So,  out  of  style 
though  it  was,  she  dons  it  once  more.  It  has  not  been 
worn  in  four  years,  it  has  been  kept  sacred  against  this 
day,  the  day  of  the  home-coming  of  her  lover.  Will 
he  understand?     Will  he  care? 

She  tarries  at  her    glass — she    is   twenty-four   now. 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  111 

Does  she  look  as  young,  is  she  as  fair,  as  four  years 
earlier?  Fairer!  For  the  long  wait  is  past  now  in- 
stead of  just  beginning.  Her  eyes  never  sparkled  be- 
fore as  they  do  this  minute;  her  color  was  never  so 
brilliant;  her  face  never  so  radiant. 

She  goes  to  a  vine-covered  piazza  at  the  side  of  the 
house  to  wait  his  coming.  And  he  is  coming  her  way. 
A  throng  of  boys  is  following  him  now  as  then,  the 
same  boys,  but  youths  now.  But  who  is  that  who  is 
singing  that  coarse  drinking  song?  She  peers  through 
the  vines — some  one  in  the  approaching  crowd  is  sing- 
ing it.  Why  doesn't  her  lover  stop  it?  Drive  the 
singer  away? 

They  pass  her  hiding-place;  she  clutches  the  vines, 
breaking  them  in  her  shaking  hands;  it  is  he  who  is 
the  singer.  They  pass,  and  he  does  not  stop,  barely 
glances  her  way. 

An  hour  later  he  comes  back  to  her  home.  She  is  a 
limp  and  shrunken  form,  lost  in  a  large  chair  in  the 
darkened  parlor.  She  hears  a  step  on  the  gravel  walk, 
a  strange,  heavy,  uncertain  step.  She  does  not  rise. 
A  loud  knock.  Aged  ten  years  in  an  hour,  she  un- 
steadily goes  to  the  door.  No  word  of  greeting  from 
either.  He  enters  unbidden.  He  offers  no  caress.  The 
day  for  that  is  past  forever. 

He  talks  constrainedly  of  coming  back  to  see  his 
mother's  grave.  She  appears  to  listen,  but  says  not  a. 
word.  He  makes  no  reference  to  the  past.  She  makes^ 
no  reference  to  the  past.  He  says  he  has  enlisted  in 
the  Regulars  and  leaves  for  the  far  West  next  day.  List- 
lessly she  hears  his  words,  but  offers  no  comment. 

At  last  he  leaves  her — leaves ;  that  is  all — ^no  farewell. 
Before  night  the  whole  town  had  seen  him,  eagerly  they 
had  sought  him  out.    They  found  him,  or  one  who  bore 


112  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

his  name,  the  boy  who  went  away  they  found  not;  the 
stranger  who  had  stolen  the  boy's  name  they  did  not 
know. 

That  night  she  lay  awake  all  the  long,  weary  hours, 
alone,  weeping,  heart-broken  now  forever.  Long  past 
midnight  she  heard  him  pass  her  home  once  more.  Once 
more  she  heard  uncertain  steps,  ribald  song  and  laugh- 
ter, boon  companions  were  with  him.  And  thus  ended 
her  four  years'  dream. 

Next  morning  she  cannot  stay  in  the  house.  She 
knows  it  is  all  over ;  he  will  not  come  to  her  again — and 
yet — 

Her  fingers  busy  themselves  with  the  roses  near  her 
gate,  her  eyes,  unbidden,  search  the  street.  At  last  she 
sees  him;  he  is  leaving  now;  she  will  speak  once  more; 
any  memory  must  be  better  than  the  one  of  yesterday. 

Yes,  it  is  better.  The  step  is  steady  now,  the  flush  is 
gone  from  the  face. 

He  takes  her  hand  and  speaks  haltingly,  but  his 
shifting  glances  will  not  meet  her  steady  eyes,  and 
words  are  few.  ' '  He  has  treasured — will  always  treas- 
ure the  memory  of  her  friendship,  and — will  she  care 
for  his  mother's  grave?  He  will  probably  never  be 
back  again.  And" a  far,  faint  whistle.  "He  be- 
lieves he  can  catch  that  freight  when  it  stops  for 
water. ' ' 

So  he  goes.  Alone  now.  Even  the  boys  have  shrunk 
away  from  him. 

In  her  room  she  snatches  from  the  floor  her  rose- 
colored  go-\vn — it  is  all  she  has  left — and  crushes  it 
against  her  heart,  forcing  back  her  sobs,  straining  her 
ears  almost  against  her  will  to  catch  the  last  faint 
whistle  of  the  departing  freight  train,  after  which — 
silence. 


Part  IV. 


THIS  PICTURE  AND  THAT 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE   BEGINNING  AND  THE  END. 

She  had  a  mother's  heart  from  her  earliest  years.  In 
childhood  no  little  girl  ever  so  loved  and  cared  for  her 
dollies.  She  would  sacrifice  her  play  any  moment  un- 
der the  pretense  that  one  of  her  dollies  was  sick  and 
needed  her. 

Before  her  marriage  she  mothered  every  child  that 
came  near  her,  and  none  was  so  unattractive  in  looks 
or  disposition  but  that  she  found  a  charm  about  it 
somewhere.  And  children  loved  her.  None  was  ever 
afraid  of  her  approaches  even  for  a  second,  no  matter 
how  timid  or  how  terror-stricken  at  the  caress  of  other 
strangers.  Few  mothers  but  were  jealous  of  the  affec- 
tion their  children  lavished  upon  her  if  they  were  with 
her  for  long. 

From  the  day  of  her  marriage  she  dreamed  of  a 
child,  a  boy  who  should  be  like  her  noble  husband  in 
every  respect.  No  queen  ever  so  anticipated  her  crown- 
ing day  as  she  the  day  she  should  clasp  to  her  famished 
heart  a  little  one  of  her  own.  The  day  came  when  she 
did  clasp  such  a  little  one,  and  much  as  she  had  an- 
ticipated that  hour  the  realization  eclipsed  the  antici- 
pation beyond  all  imaginings.  She  was  intoxicated 
with  joy.  She  was  delirious  with  ecstasy  unspeakable. 
Her  eyes  shone  like  blazing  diamonds.  Her  whole  face 
was  a  transfiguration  of  delight.  It  dazzled  with  its 
brilliancy  of  light.  It  almost  blinded  the  eyes  with  its 
effulgence  of  glory. 

115 


116  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

To  be  in  the  room  with  her  for  a  few  seconds  only 
was  a  revelation  of  the  beauty  of  maternity.  It  was 
heaven  come  down  to  earth.  It  was  earth  exalted  to 
high  heaven.  In  the  presence  of  such  love  there  was  a 
divine  emanation  of  purity  that  seemed  to  burn  away 
the  dross  in  human  thought  and  character.  One  felt 
like  ]\Ioses  in  the  presence  of  the  burning  bush,  as 
though  the  shoe  must  be  loosed  from  off  one's  foot,  for 
the  ground  whereon  they  stood  was  holy. 

Every  second  of  the  twenty-four  hours,  whether  wak- 
ing or  sleeping,  was  for  the  mother  a  joy  which  was 
almost  as  poignant  as  a  pain.  As  she  gazed  upon  her 
child  she  would  often  catch  her  breath  and  clutch  at 
her  bosom  as  though  a  spasm  of  pain  caught  her  heart, 
the  pain  of  a  joy  that  was  too  large  for  the  place  it 
filled. 

The  passing  present  was  more  than  she  ever  dreamed 
heaven  could  be.  And  yet,  rich  as  it  was,  like  all  other 
mothers,  she  constantly  dreamed  of  the  happiness  yet 
to  be — how  glorious  beyond  words  to  see  him  begin  to 
toddle  about,  to  hear  him  first  say  "mamma"  and 
**papa."  To  see  him  a  laughing  schoolboy;  to  look 
into  his  eyes  when  they  should  be  on  a  level  with  her 
own;  to  read  there  purity  and  honor  and  truth  and 
love. 

And  then  his  youth  and  young  manhood — ^how  holy, 
how  divine,  to  be  a  mother,  to  have  such  a  son  as  hers 
would  be.  How  his  life  would  bless  others.  "What  a 
career  of  usefulness  was  before  him.  What  laurels  he 
would  win.  Ah,  God,  it  was  almost  too  much,  such 
happiness  as  this.  And  her  whole  being,  physical  and 
mental,  was  shaken  with  an  ever-present  thrill  of  ex- 
pectancy.    The  vision  of  the  Holy  City  vouchsafed  to 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  117 

the  aged  exile  of  Patmos  was  not  more  resplendent  or 
indescribably  glorious  than  the  vision  this  mother  had 
of  the  future  of  her  boy. 

If  you  could  have  seen  her  the  evening  the  little  one 
took  his  first  few  steps  alone  from  his  father's  out- 
stretched hands  to  hers,  if  you  could  have  seen  him 
throw  his  little  body  forward  with  an  abandon  of  lov- 
ing trustfulness  as  he  came  near  those  yearning  hands 
of  hers  and  at  the  same  moment  look  up  into  her  face 
and  say  "mamma''  for  the  first  time — if  you  could 
have  witnessed  that  scene,  if  you  could  have  looked 
into  the  father's  face,  then  into  the  child's  face,  and 
then  last  of  all  into  the  mother's  face — well,  heaven 
would  have  no  surprises  for  you  as  a  revelation  of  what 
love  means. 

If  you  could  have  seen  her  face  when  she  and  a  boy 
her  own  height  talked  and  dreamed  of  his  future  life 
and  work,  you  would  have  seen  what  eye  hath  not  seen 
nor  ear  heard  nor  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man. 
A  glimpse  of  those  two  faces  in  such  an  hour  of  holy 
communion  would  have  transformed  a  man  of  unclean 
life  and  thoughts  into  an  apostle  of  purity  forever- 
more. 

He  was  the  only  child  that  ever  came  to  bless  the 
shoreless  ocean  of  her  love. 

He  reached  his  twentieth  birthday.  War  reached  out 
his  red,  omnivorous  clutches  and  drew  her  boy  to  his 
reeking  breast.  For  forty-eight  sleepless  hours  his 
father  stumbled  over  the  slippery  field  where  for  forty- 
eight  hours  men  had  been  hewing  and  hacking  each 
other  to  pieces. 

At  last  at  the  bottom  of  a  heap  of  mangled  carrion 
— dead  horses  and  dead  men — he  found  what  was  left 


118  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

of  his  boy.  He  identified  him  by  a  ring,  his  watch, 
and  a  locket  on  his  chain.  The  father  took  home  that 
which  he  found.  Yes,  took  it  back  to  the  mother  who 
bore  it.  But  war  had  done  well  his  work — she  knew 
not  the  face  or  the  form  of  her  dead. 

Twenty  years  ago  and  now;  a  child  taking  his  first 
steps;  a  youth  of  twenty;  a  distorted  something  had 
taken  its  last  step ;  a  babe  in  its  mother's  bosom — car- 
rion from  a  battlefield  that  a  mother  did  not  know.  The 
beginning  and  the  end — the  beginning  and  the  end  of  a 
life  made  in  the  image  of  God;  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  a  mother's  dream. 

And  this  was  war — glorious  war.  Oh,  for  some  new 
poet  to  arise  to  sing  thy  praises,  0  War,  with  voice  of 
angel  and  harp  of  gold.  Oh,  for  a  dramatist  who 
could  lure  the  dead  from  the  cemeteries  where  lie  the 
buried  dreams  of  human  hearts! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

A  HOME — AND  AFTERWARDS. 

A  MAN  was  hurrying  along  the  street  just  as  the  dusk 
was  settling  down.  It  was  late  in  the  autumn  of  the 
year  and  the  wind  was  cold  and  piercing.  Added  to 
all  the  bleakness  of  season  and  hour  a  raw  and  chilling 
sleet  was  falling.  The  man  hurrying  past  was  a  stran- 
ger in  the  town.  A  terrible  loneliness  was  dogging  his 
steps.  He  was  homesick  and  heartsick.  Between  thirty 
and  forty  years  of  age,  he  had,  some  six  months  pre- 
viously, passed  through  a  great  crisis  of  grief  which 
had  left  his  life  completely  desolate — his  wife  and  only 
child  had  been  taken  from  him  the  same  week. 

At  the  moment  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  him  everything 
seemed  to  be  conspiring  to  make  his  burden  unbearable 
— a  strange  town ;  not  an  acquaintance  in  it,  night,  au- 
tumn winds,  a  driving  sleet,  memory.  There  was  but 
one  more  touch  lacking  to  the  picture,  and  that  touch 
was  not  to  be  left  out. 

He  was  just  turning  a  corner  when  his  eye  was 
caught  by  the  sight  of  a  cozy  little  house  almost  the 
exact  duplicate  of  his  own.  He  paused  a  moment  in 
the  storm,  for  a  vision  of  the  past  rose  in  his  mind  with 
such  overmastering  vividness  that  his  feet  forgot  to 
move.  The  curtains  of  the  little  home  had  not  been 
drawn  down,  though  it  was  already  dark  without. 
While  he  stood  there  in  the  storm  gazing  at  the  house 
before  him  and  at  the  vision  within,  a  man  brushed 
past  him  and  turned  in  at  the  gate.    Just  then  a  woman 

119 


120  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

followed  by  a  little  girl  some  two  years  old — the  age 
of  his  own  lost  child — appeared  in  the  room  into  which 
he  was  looking. 

They  came  to  the  window  and  pressed  their  faces 
against  the  sleet-battered  panes — they  are  watching  for 
papa.  They  hear  a  step  on  the  walk,  they  fly  into  the 
hall  and  open  the  door,  they  fairly  seize  a  muffled  fig- 
ure from  the  clutch  of  the  storm — and  the  stranger  in 
the  street  sees  the  rest,  and  he  remembers. 

Fascinated  by  the  little  drama  of  purest  happiness 
within  the  home,  the  man  in  the  storm  stands  unmov- 
ing,  heedless  of  the  driving  sleet  which  beats  in  his  face, 
feeling  not  the  freezing  wind  which  whips  his  coat 
about  like  the  limbs  of  a  tree  in  a  tempest.  The  im- 
propriety of  his  action  never  occurs  to  him. 

Supper  is  waiting,  the  three — father  and  mother  and 
child — sit  down  to  the  daintiest  and  yet  most  abundant 
of  suppers.  The  storm  roars  without  but  warmth  and 
good  cheer  and  love  reign  within — what  matters  the 
night  and  the  storm! 

They  had  been  married  about  four  years.  The  days 
had  been  cloudless  from  that  moment  to  this.  Many  a 
rich  suitor  had  she  turned  away  in  order  to  marry  the 
man  of  her  choice,  and  he  was  worthy  of  her  favor. 
Without  influence  of  any  kind  or  a  dollar  to  back  him, 
he  had  put  himself  through  college  and  then  through  a 
professional  school.  Their  engagement  had  been  long. 
They  had  had  to  wait  four  years  after  his  studies  were 
finished  before  the  income  from  his  profession  warrant- 
ed him  in  establishing  a  home  of  his  own. 

But  at  last  their  dreams  came  true,  and  they  were 
married.  The  long  wait  but  enhanced  the  joy  of  that 
hour.     In  radiant  beauty,  the    reflex  of  their  hearts' 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  121 

joy,  they  began  their  journey  together.  Never  were 
four  years  fuller  of  every  noble  satisfaction  of  the  hu- 
man heart.  Home,  perfect  love  and  sympathy,  a  beau- 
tiful child,  extending  fame  and  rapidly  increasing  in- 
come— what  more  could  the  heart  of  man  or  woman 
ask? 

They  were  too  happy  in  the  present  to  think  much 
about  the  future;  but  when  they  did,  the  upward-slop- 
ing pathway  of  their  life  was  speedily  lost  in  a  glory 
of  light  that  was  too  dazzling  to  gaze  upon  for  long. 

The  stranger  in  the  street  read  all  this  and  his  heart- 
hunger  made  him  feel  his  own  loss  with  a  hundredfold 
greater  intensity.  Before  this  household  only  years  of 
happiness — before  himself,  only  years — ^that  was  all. 

Another  year  passed.  He  who  stood  in  the  storm  that 
night  was  in  the  hospital  corps  of  the  advance  army. 
The  first  battle  had  been  fought,  a  long  and  gory  fight 
lasting  all  day  and  far  into  the  night.  The  army  to 
which  he  was  attached  remained  masters  of  the  field.  It 
fell  to  him  along  with  many  others  to  search  for  the 
wounded  all  the  hours  of  darkness  that  followed. 

Down  by  a  log  that  was  fallen  across  a  little  stream 
where  the  wounded  had  crowded  to  drink  and  die,  he 
discovered  one  whose  life  was  fast  ebbing  away.  The 
wounded  man  was  still  able  to  gasp  a  few  words  when 
found. 

**  Please — send — my — ^body — ^back — to — ^her,'*  and  the 
dying  man's  voice  failed. 

The  stranger  bent  low  his  ear  till  it  almost  touched 
those  pallid  lips.  ''Who  is  she?  Where  shall  I  find 
her  ?    Speak  quick  or  it  will  be  too  late ! '  * 

No  answer.    He  poured  a  little  liquor  between  the 


122  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

silent  lips.  The  dying  man's  eyes  opened  blankly. 
"Quick,  quick!  her  address!'* 

*'Yes — the — address — it  is,    it  is — what    is    it** 

more  stimulants  were  given.  Again  the  stranger  bent 
low  his  head.  The  white  lips  moved,  the  address  was 
faintly  articulated.  Merciful  God!  It  was  the  city, 
the  street,  the  number  of  that  home  of  the  wild  night 
when  he  had  stood  in  the  storm  without. 

And  another  Eden  was  no  more. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

AND  BOTH  WERE  SPEECHLESS. 

I  KNEW  the  old  Doctor  well,  had  always  known  him. 
He  had  been  a  surgeon  in  the  Civil  War  and  I  loved  to 
hear  him  recount  his  experiences  in  that  memorable 
struggle.  He  was  a  graphic  and  picturesque  story-teller. 
Few  were  gifted  with  an  equal  power  of  making  pass 
before  your  very  eyes  in  all  their  vividness  and  detail 
the  scenes  of  which  they  had  been  witnesses. 

When  he  was  in  the  mood  for  it,  it  was  not  difficult 
to  induce  the  Doctor  to  narrate  some  of  the  stirring 
events  which  had  filled  his  life  for  four  years  when 
with  the  army  in  the  field.  But  almost  invariably  his 
stories  were  of  some  deed  of  exceptional  valor  and  hero- 
ism, and  were  usually  enlivened  with  a  touch  of  humor 
here  and  there.  The  deeper  pathos  and  tragedy  of  the 
battlefield  he  always  passed  over  lightly,  and  could 
never  be  induced  to  dwell  in  any  fulness  upon  the  more 
sanguinary  and  revolting  or  distressing  aspects  of  a 
scene  of  human  slaughter. 

But  it  chanced  one  day,  when  I  was  driving  with  him 
several  miles  into  the  country,  where  he  had  been  called 
in  consultation,  that  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  more  remin- 
iscent mood  than  usual,  and  there  was  a  note  of  pensive 
melancholy  in  his  words  and  tones  that  was  exceedingly 
rare  with  him.  Our  conversation  drifted  to  the  ever- 
recurring  topic  of  the  Civil  War,  for  the  fascination  of 
its  events  was  ever  strong  with  me,  especially  when 
with  the  Doctor. 

On  this  occasion  he  touched  again  and  again  that 
123 


124  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

deep  note  of  tragedy  which  I  had  never  before  known 
him  to  strike. 

At  length  I  was  emboldened  to  ask  him  what  was  the 
most  memorable  sight  he  witnessed  during  the  entire 
four  years  of  the  war. 

I  expected,  if  he  was  willing  to  answer  my  question 
at  all,  that  he  would  speak  of  some  terrible  carnage,  or 
state  the  number  of  dead  and  wounded  he  had  counted 
on  a  given  area;  or,  perhaps,  portray  some  isolated 
deed  of  heroism,  or  suffering;  or,  maybe,  describe  a 
cavalry  charge  as  only  he  could  describe  such  a  charge. 

"When  I  asked  the  question  the  Doctor's  brow  imme- 
diately clouded  and  an  expression  of  deepest  pain  was 
depicted  on  his  face.  I  at  once  knew  that  he  would  not 
have  to  cast  about  in  his  mind  to  consider  which  scene 
was  the  most  memorable  he  had  ever  witnessed.  The 
scene  was  before  him  that  moment — perhaps  had  never 
left  him.  I  knew  also  that  it  was  one  that  he  had  never 
even  alluded  to  in  all  our  years  of  intimacy. 

At  first  I  was  all  expectancy ;  but  he  was  silent  so 
long  that  I  began  to  regret  my  question,  for  I  saw  he 
was  suffering  even  yet  by  the  memories  I  had  thought- 
lessly called  up. 

Finally  I  said :  * '  I  beg  your  pardon,  Doctor,  for  my 
question.  You  need  not  answer  it.  I  see  I  have  awak- 
ened painful  memories.  I  never  thought  of  doing  so.  I 
supposed  it  would  be  something  you  had  perhaps  al- 
ready told  me.  Or,  at  any  rate,  something  thrillingly 
dramatic. ' ' 

Upon  this  he  replied:  "No,  I  have  never  told  you 
the  most  memorable  scene  of  all.  In  fact,  I  have  never 
told  anybody.  But  I  know  but  too  well  what  it  was. 
There  is  no  other  to  dispute  its  pre-eminence."  And 
here  he  paused. 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  125 

Again  I  spoke  up  and  said:  '*I  beg  you  will  forgive 
me,  Doctor.  I  wouldn't  have  pained  you  for  anything. 
It  was  thoughtless  for  me  to  ask.  Try  to  forget  the 
question.     I  don't  want  you  to  answer  it." 

"Yes,  I  will  answer  it.  You  shall  hear  what  im- 
pressed me  most  of  all  the  sights  and  sounds  of  death 
in  a  thousand  forms. 

"I  was  going  over  the  field  the  next  day  after  the 
battle.  The  wounded  had  already  been  removed  by  our 
very  efficient  hospital  corps ;  but  I  never  could  feel  sat- 
isfied unless  I  went  myself  over  as  much  of  the  scene 
of  conflict  as  I  possibly  could,  as  soon  as  there  was  the 
slightest  let-up  in  my  duties  at  the  operating-table. 

' '  I  don 't  recall  that  I  ever  found  a  wounded  man  who 
had  been  overlooked,  still  I  could  not  give  up  my  habit 
and  I  clung  to  it  to  the  close  of  the  war. 

**0n  the  occasion  I  have  just  referred  to,  I  saw  what 
was  to  me  the  most  memorable  scene  of  the  entire  war. ' ' 
Here  the  Doctor  paused  for  some  time,  and  there  was  a 
look  of  horror  in  his  face  and  eyes  as  though  the  scene 
were  still  before  him.  Consumed  as  I  was  with  breath- 
less curiosity  to  know  what  the  scene  was,  I  again  forced 
myself  to  beg  him  not  to  continue  a  narrative  so  pain- 
ful to  himself.  Without  making  any  reply  to  what  I 
said,  he  resumed  his  story,  but  it  was  evidently  a  strug- 
gle for  him  to  go  on, 

"It  was  two  dead  men — only  two.  Each  had  fallen 
with  the  bayonet  of  the  other  thrust  clean  through  his 
body;  a  hand  of  each  was  clutching  and  tearing  the 
hair  of  the  other.  And  so  they  had  fallen,  and  so  they 
remained.  But  it  was  not  the  physical  aspects  of  the 
case  so  much,  not  that;  I  had  seen  many  similar  sights 
on  previous  battlefields. 

**It  was  their  faces,  their  eyes,  the   expression  that 


126  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

both  men  wore.  That  I  had  never  seen  anything  like. 
Such  hatred,  such  fury,  such  murderous  blood-lust — 
why,  I  never  dreamed  the  human  features  could  be  dis- 
torted in  hell  to  depict  such  a  frenzy  of  murderous  fury 
as  I  read  on  those  two  faces."  The  Doctor  stopped 
asrain.  fairly  shaken  by  the  memory  of  the  horror  of 
that  spectacle,  so  vivid  was  it  even  yet,  thirty-five  years 
after  the  close  of  the  conflict. 

Ae^ain  he  went  on  after  a  heroic  effort  at  self-ma«!tpry. 

* 'Accustomed  as  I  was  to  death  in  every  form  of  dis- 
fisrurement  and  physical  asrony  and  distortion,  I  had 
never  seen  anything  like  that.  I  turned  away  from  the 
sis'ht  with  a  sickening  horror  such  as  I  have  never  felt 
before  nor  since.  I  was  faint,  yes.  faint,  and  I  a  sur- 
geon in  an  army  that  waded  in  blood  all  the  time.  But 
it  was  a  moral  faintness  more  than  a  physical  one.  Those 
faces,  how  they  haunt  me  still.  Why,  man,"  he  ex- 
claimed, turninsr  and  seizing  my  arm  with  a  convulsive, 
vise-like  grip,  "I  have  seen  them  in  my  dreams  for 
thirty-five  years.  I  saw  them  again  last  night,  just  as 
they  were  that  day,  just  the  same,  just  the  same. 

**0h,  it  is  awful,  awful !  A  weaker  man  would  have 
been  driven  insane  by  such  dreams  years  ago." 

Asra^'n  the  old  Doctor  stopped  in  his  narration,  and 
seldom  have  I  seen  a  man  so  agitated  even  by  a  present 
distress  or  fear.  I  thought  he  had  reached  the  end  of 
his  story,  or,  at  any  rate,  would  be  unable  to  proceed 
farther.  For  a  few  minutes  of  painful  silence  I,  too, 
was  completely  dumb;  and,  I  will  confess,  also  some- 
what shaken  by  the  powerful  emotions  which  were  rack- 
ing both  mind  and  body  of  the  elder  man  by  my  side. 

After  a  time,  however,  my  companion  began  speaking 
once  more  and  this  time  finished  what  he  had  to  say. 

**I  was  slightly  acquainted  with  the  Union  soldier, 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  127 

and  from  a  wounded  Confederate  who  was  picked  up 
amono:  our  men  and  brought  into  our  hospital,  I  learned 
some  facts  about  the  other  party  to  that  horrible  death- 
grapple. 

**Two  little  white  country  churches,  one  in  a  secluded 
valley  of  northern  New  York,  the  other  in  a  remote  re- 
gion of  Georgia.  These  two  men  were  the  most  hon- 
ored deacons  in  those  churches,  stanch,  noble,  Godly 
men;  models  in  the  home,  tender  and  sympathetic — the 
finest  men  in  their  respective  communities,  honest  and 
upright.  They  were  leaders  in  every  sense  of  the  word, 
both  in  church  work  and  in  everything  that  was  for  the 
good  of  the  towns  in  which  they  dwelt. 

*'Such  were  the  men  in  their  homes;  such  they  might 
have  died,  with  friends  about  them  and  the  peace  of 
God  in  their  hearts.  But  war  came — and  their  dvinpf 
thoughts,  their  dead  faces,  oh !  it  was  dreadful,  dreadful ! 

"And  there  is  always  a  sequel  to  my  dream  of  those 
distorted  faces.  I  see  them  rising  together  to  the  gate 
of  heaven;  and  each,  without  perceiving  the  other, 
knocks  at  the  same  time  for  admission.  An  angel  opens 
the  gate  and  asks  each  what  he  wishes.  The  instant  an- 
swer of  both  is  that  they  seek  admission  to  the  city  of 
the  redeemed. 

"The  angel  gazes,  sad-eyed,  upon  the  two  naked 
souls  before  him ;  and  then  asks  them  in  low,  pain-riven 
tones:  'What  was  your  last  deed  on  earth,  and  what 
your  last  thought?* 

"Each  now  for  the  first  time  perceives  that  another 
soul  is  waiting  at  the  gate.  Slowly  each  lifts  his  eye  till 
he  gazes  full  into  the  other's.  Recognition  is  instanta- 
neous— and  both  are  speechless.*' 

The  old  Doctor's  story  was  done.  We  rode  on  in  si- 
lence. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 


I  WAS  visiting  a  friend  of  mine  in  June,  1896.  It 
happened  that  I  was  there  over  Sunday.  Toward  eve- 
ning my  friend  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  like  to  go  with 
him  to  the  young  people 's  prayer-meeting  which  preced- 
ed the  preaching  service.  He  said  he  did  not  ordinarily 
attend,  but  that  evening  there  was  a  young  man  to  lead 
who  had  been  recently  converted  and  in  whom  the  en- 
tire church  was  particularly  interested.  This  was  the 
first  meeting  the  young  man  had  ever  led. 

So  we  went  together  to  the  service.  I  noticed  my 
friend  spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  the  youth,  and  yet  evi- 
dently thought  he  was  understating  his  high  qualities, 
desirous  that  my  impression  should  be  at  first  hand, 
confident  that  I  would  be  as  enthusiastic  as  he  after  I 
had  once  seen  and  heard.  I  will  confess  I  was  but  mild- 
ly interested. 

It  was  a  hot  night,  so  I  was  not  prepared  to  see  many 
at  the  service.  We  ourselves  were  early  but  the  room 
was  already  packed  when  we  arrived  and  we  had  to 
wait  standing  a  few  minutes  for  more  chairs  to  be 
brought  in.  The  moment  we  entered  the  room  my 
friend  exclaimed  with  ill  suppressed  excitement,  "There 
he  is!*' 

I  glanced  at  the  leader,  more  in  curiosity  than  any- 
thing else,  wondering  what  could  so  enthuse  my  com- 
panion at  the  mere  sight  of  him  or  mention  of  his  name. 
But  one  glance  was  enough.    My  attention  was  riveted 

128 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  11» 

to  his  face  at  once.  I  did  not  notice  when  our  chairs 
were  brought  until  my  friend  spoke  to  me  a  second 
time,  and  even  after  that  was  obliged  to  tap  me  on  the 
arm. 

The  youth  in  the  leader's  chair  was  only  sixteen 
years  old,  but  there  was  a  manly  fascination  about  his 
face  that  I  have  never  seen  equaled.  He  was  fully  six 
feet  tall,  dark,  slender,  and  of  athletic  build.  His  coun- 
tenance was  the  finest  blending  of  beauty  and  intellec- 
tuality I  have  ever  beheld.  He  was  rather  pale,  despite 
the  intense  heat.  This  was  probably  due  to  excitement 
or  nervousness  in  his  unaccustomed  position. 

That  he  was  intensely  popular,  the  very  leader  of  the 
young  people  in  everything  clean  and  worthy,  was  un- 
mistakable. One  need  only  look  into  the  admiring  eyes 
of  the  throng  in  that  hot  room,  to  be  convinced  of  this 
fact. 

Two  or  three  opening  hymns  were  sung,  and  I  no- 
ticed the  leader  of  the  meeting  was  also  the  leader  of 
the  singing  as  well.  And  what  a  splendid  voice  he  had. 
He  was  still  somewhat  nervous,  though  this  was  grad- 
ually wearing  away.  I  admired  him  all  the  more  for 
the  fact  that  he  was  not  too  self-assured. 

The  first  singing  done,  he  opened  a  little  Bible  which 
I  fancied  was  a  present  from  his  mother  when  he  was 
a  child.  He  read  the  evening  lesson  in  a  clear,  manly 
voice,  though  a  voice  which  slightly  trembled.  He  was 
not  yet  entirely  free  from  self -consciousness  and  trepi- 
dation. But  the  trembling  tones  gave  an  added  thrill  to 
his  ringing  enunciation. 

I  wondered  if  he  would  say  a  few  words  on  the  topic. 
I  hoped  that  he  would,  however  brief  he  might  be.  My 
interest  in  him  was  deepening  all  the  time.    I  had  not 


130  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

long  to  wait  in  suspense.  The  reading  was  short.  When 
finished,  he  announced  the  topic:  *'My  strength  is  as 
the  strength  of  ten  because  my  heart  is  pure. '  *  As  these 
words  rang  out  I  was  thrilled  by  a  new  power  that 
seemed  to  be  poured  into  them,  familiar  as  they  were. 
Each  word  fell  from  his  mobile  lips  like  a  new-coined 
gold  piece. 

His  first  few  sentences  were  a  little  broken,  but  al- 
most immediately  thereafter  he  seemed  to  lose  all  fear 
and  all  consciousness  of  self.  He  swept  us  all  off  our 
feet  by  his  eager,  boyish,  yet  manly  portrayal  of  the 
masterly,  all-conquering  strength  of  a  pure  heart  and 
clean  life.  It  was  partly  what  he  said  and  more  what 
he  felt  and  the  passionate  earnestness  with  which  he 
spoke,  that  made  our  feelings  vibrant  with  every  high 
purpose  and  resolution. 

But  thralled  as  I  was  by  the  speaker,  yet  my  atten- 
tion was  diverted  from  him  after  a  few  moments  to  an- 
other face,  the  face  of  a  woman  in  a  distant  corner  of 
the  room.  I  can't  conceive  how  I  ever  came  to  notice 
her  in  the  first  place,  but  notice  her  I  did.  After  that 
I  could  scarcely  take  my  eyes  from  her  face,  even  to 
glance  at  the  speaker. 

Much  as  the  boy's  face  shone  with  his  high  thoughts 
and  eager  speech,  the  woman's  face  shone  still  more. 
She  was  leaning  far  forward  in  her  seat,  though  what 
the  boy  was  saying  could  easily  have  been  heard  double 
her  distance  away.  Her  eyes  were  so  glued  to  his  face 
that  her  lids  scarce  seemed  to  move  once  during  the 
time  he  was  speaking.  Her  soul  was  in  her  eyes,  and  I 
almost  fancied  that  it  was  leaning  a  little  out  of  and 
farther  forward  than  her  eyes  themselves. 

She  was  his  mother.    No  one  told  me  so,    I  had  never 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  131 

seen  or  heard  of  either  before  that  day,  but  no  one  could 
have  been  so  blind  or  dull  as  not  to  have  guessed. 

The  meeting  over,  my  friend's  enthusiasm  knew  no 
bounds  as  we  were  on  our  way  home.  He  could  talk  of 
nothing  but  of  that  youthful  leader:  his  noble  charac- 
ter, his  splendid  promise,  his  leadership  in  the  past  in 
the  social  life  and  school  life  and  athletic  interests  of 
the  young  people;  and  now,  of  his  equal  interest  and 
enthusiasm  in  Christian  work,  and  what  a  power  he  al- 
ready was  among  not  only  the  young  but   among  all 


I  was  equally  interested  in  the  woman  in  the  far  cor- 
ner and  asked  about  her.  *'Yes,  she  is  his  mother,''  my 
friend  replied,  "and  a  proud  and  happy  woman  she  is. 
When  the  boy  was  a  baby,  she  dedicated  him  to  the  For- 
eign Mission  field.  But  she  never  told  him  about  that 
until  recently,  not  until  he  made  the  decision  independ- 
ently and  uninfluenced  by  any  one.  After  he  had  made 
his  decision  he  told  her  of  it  with  fear  and  hesitation, 
dreading  her  opposition  to  his  going  away  so  far,  as  he 
is  her  only  child.  Then  it  was  she  told  him  of  his  con- 
secration to  that  work  in  his  infancy.  What  a  scene  that 
hour  must  have  witnessed  in  that  home!" 

The  rest  of  his  story  was  told  me  a  few  years  later  by 
another  friend  of  mine,  who  was  for  a  time  in  the  com- 
missary department  of  an  army  in  the  tropical  islands 
of  the  far  East. 

It  was  sometime  along  in  the  fall  of  '99.  My  friend 
was  going  through  a  hospital  with  a  young  doctor  with 
whom  he  was  on  intimate  terms.  In  one  cot  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  most  pitiable  human  wreck  he  ever  saw, 
even  in  that  land  of  vice:  hair  nearly  all  dropped  out, 


132  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

the  rest  entirely  white;  teeth  falling  from  his  mouth; 
skin  a  livid  yellow,  throat  ulcerous,  voice  a  mere  husky 
whisper.  My  friend  said  he  turned  from  that  revolting 
spectacle  with  a  dizzy,  sickening  weakness. 

It  was  the  same  youth  who  had  led  that  prayer-meet- 
ing three  short  years  before.  Companions  had  lured 
him  to  an  institution  regularly  inspected  by  the  army 
physicians,  and  here  he  was  rotting  away  under  a  broil- 
ing sun  in  the  land  of  the  East. 

They  buried  him  over  there.  On  a  little  white  stone 
they  chiseled  these  words: 

**Died  for  his  country." 

Died  for  his  country?  Good  God!  who  will  answer 
for  that  boy 's  soul  in  the  day  of  judgment  ? 

And  so  he,  like  thousands  of  others  of  the  bravest  and 
the  best,  went  on  a  *  *  foreign  mission. ' ' 


Part  V. 

THE  UNKNOWABLE 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

TEN    o'clock    the    NIGHT    BEFORE    THE    BATTLE. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  camp  the  night  before  the  battle. 
The  sky  is  without  a  cloud :  the  light  of  moon  and  stars 
brilliant  in  the  extreme.  The  heavens  never  wore  a 
more  peaceful  aspect ;  nature  never  wore  a  more  peace- 
ful aspect.  The  murmuring  of  running  water  can  be 
heard.  The  fragrance  of  orchard  blossoms  is  in  the  air. 
Spring  is  supreme  everywhere,  and  summer  acoming. 
Fields  are  greening,  cattle  are  on  a  thousand  hills,  now 
taking  their  rest.  Birds  have  folded  their  wings  in  the 
branches,  their  songs  are  hushed.  Nature  is  at  peace. 
But  on  every  hill  and  in  every  valley  for  miles  and 
miles  are  the  glowing  embers  of  dying  fires.  Rolled  in 
blankets  about  these  dying  fires  are  two  hundred  thou- 
sand sleeping  soldiers — sleeping  and  dreaming,  dream- 
ing of  the  past,  dreaming  of  the  morrow.  They  oft  stir 
uneasily,  their  sleep  is  troubled.  On  the  hills  are  six 
hundred  cannon  waiting  for  the  morrow.  Generals  are 
consulting  in  their  tents.  Spies  are  crawling  about  un- 
der cover  of  bush  and  shadow.  Sentries  are  pacing 
their  weary  rounds,  with  ever  and  anon  the  cry,  ''Who 
goes  there?'*  Horses  are  restless  and  occasionally 
break  the  stillness  with  a  plaintive  neigh.  Tonight  na- 
ture so  fair;  men  in  the  prime  of  their  years;  silence 
profound,  menacing,  ominous. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  two  hundred  thousand  homes  the 
night  before  the  battle.  These  homes  all  have  their 
empty  chairs,  their  vacant  beds,  their  aching  hearts, 
their  sleepless  eyes.     Sons,  husbands,  brothers,  lovers, 

135 


136  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

fathers,  are  in  that  far  camp  waiting  the  morrow.  Sons, 
husbands,  brothers,  lovers,  fathers,  will  camp  there  till 
the  resurrection.  Tears,  prayers,  moaning  grief,  dumb 
agony;  waiting,  waiting,  waiting — what  else  for  homes 
to  do  but  wait? 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  heaven  the  night  before  the  battle. 
Eyes  are  straining  over  heaven's  battlements  down  to- 
ward a  speck  of  dust  floating  in  far-off  space.  Those 
eyes  are  fixed  on  a  part  of  that  speck  of  dust  which  is 
now  curtained  in  a  shroud  which  men  name  darkness, 
and  a  darker  shroud  named  sorrow,  and  a  darker  still 
named  death.  Those  heavenly  eyes  are  fixed  upon  two 
hundred  thousand  men  now  wrapped  in  their  blankets, 
a  third  of  whom  in  less  than  twice  twelve  hours  will  be 
wrapped  in  eternal  silence.  Those  eyes  are  fixed  upon 
two  hundred  thousand  homes  scattered  all  over  two 
mighty  nations.  There  is  a  mingled  roar  of  never-ceas- 
ing cries  for  pity  and  protection  battering  the  ears  of 
all  the  heavenly  hosts — the  prayers  of  two  hundred 
thousand  homes,  and  prayers  from  the  battlefield  itself. 
All  space  is  atremble  with  the  upward  rush  of  those 
salt  and  bitter  cries.  There  is  a  moan  which  fills  all 
space,  the  cumulated  heart-sobs  of  the  children  of 
Time:  that  moan  penetrates  the  remotest  frontiers  of 
that  ''better  country."  The  faces  in  the  heavenly 
city  are  unutterably  sad;  there  are  tears  in  the  eyes 
of  angels.  Heaven  itself  is  helpless.  Heaven  itself 
can  only  listen  and  wait.  Angels  pace  its  high  ram- 
parts. They  are  gazing  upon  that  sleeping  host  be- 
low. The  ears  of  angels  are  agonized  by  the  far-carry- 
ing sound  of  oaths  and  revelry  in  parts  of  that  fated 
field.  Shaking  fingers  are  pointing  downward — angels 
are  counting  the  sleepers  who  will  sleep  in  hell  ere  two 
Buns  more  shall  rise. 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  137 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  hell  the  night  before  the  battle.  A 
holiday  has  been  proclaimed  throughout  all  that  sul- 
phurous realm.  Even  the  stokers  are  given  a  night  off. 
It  is  an  hour  of  demoniac  glee.  Tomorrow  hell's  har- 
vest will  be  garnered.  Bulletins  are  constantly  being 
received  and  read  aloud  to  those  bedlam  myriads. 

Bulletin  No.  1:  ''Men  in  camp  drinking  and  carous- 
ing"— howls  of  glee. 

Bulletin  No.  2:  "National  hatreds  deepening  and 
darkening" — more  howls  of  glee. 

Bulletin  No.  3:  ''Preparation  for  slaughter  and 
death  complete" — demoniacal,  maniacal  laughter  that 
shakes  the  foundations  of  deepest  hell  and  echoes  to  far 
heaven. 

Bulletin  No.  4:  "Less  than  half  the  men  in  either 
army  prepared  for  eternity" — the  damned  wallowing 
on  the  floor  of  hell,  drunk  with  ecstasy. 

Bulletin  No.  5:  "The  slaughter  will  be  beyond  all 
precedent,  new  machine  guns  arriving,  mines  to  be 
sprung,  dynamite  to  be  dropped  from  balloons" — and 
here  the  laughter  of  the  lost  completely  drowns  the 
reading. 

Bulletin  No.  6 :  "  More  room  needed  in  hell  than  first 
deemed  necessary" — shrieking  salvos  of  applause.  And 
then  the  countless  hordes  scatter,  each  vying  with  other 
to  make  swift  preparation  for  the  great  reception  to  be 
held  on  the  morrow. 


It  is  ten  0  'clock  on  the  battlefield  the  day  of  the  bat- 
tle. The  sun's  face  is  darkened  by  the  smoke  of  can- 
non. Birds  and  beasts  have  fled  in  terror.  All  the 
green  of  nature  is  now  dyed  one  red.  Men  are  charg- 
ing everywhere,  men  shouting  everywhere,  men  falling, 


138  AND  THIS   IS  WAR 

dying  everywhere.  The  ground  is  piling  high  with  writh- 
ing heaps  of  the  wounded  and  thfi  dead.  Red  War  is 
glutting  his  insatiable  blood-lust.  Cannibal  War  is 
feeding  him  fat  on  the  flower  of  a  nation's  youth. 
Swords  are  feasting  and  gorging,  and  still  crying, 
**More,  more!"  Armies  are  melting  away;  men  are 
going  down  into  silence ;  the  unlived  years  and  the  un- 
realized hopes  will  remain  unlived  years  and  unrealized 
hopes  to  all  eternity. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  two  hundred  thousand  homes  the 
day  of  the  battle.  And  two  hundred  thousand  homes 
are — waiting. 

It  is  ten  0  'clock  in  heaven  the  day  of  the  battle.  And 
all  heaven  is  in  commotion.  Some  in  the  throngs  of 
dead  who,  fresh  from  the  battlefield,  crowd  the  gates  of 
the  celestial  city,  are  pointed  by  angels  with  flaming 
swords  and  veiled  faces  to  another  eternal  abiding 
place.  Look  into  the  faces  of  that  procession  turned 
thitherward — no,  don't  look!  An  eternity  of  heaven 
could  never  blot  out  the  memory.  Watch  those  admit- 
ted to  heaven — foes  on  earth,  a  moment  before,  feeling 
for  each  other's  heart,  now  face  to  face.  What  are 
their  thoughts  now?  So  all  heaven  is  in  commotion 
this  hour;  friends  long  there,  waiting  to  greet  friends 
just  arriving;  enemies  on  earth  clasping  hands  here  in 
love.  And  at  the  gates  of  the  city  some  going  away 
into 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  hell  tbe  day  of  the  battle.  All  its 
gates  swing  wide.  High  carnival  reigns;  the  reception 
committee  is  overworked;  the  hospitality  of  the  lost  is 
overtaxed.  An  endless  procession  is  arriving,  those  un- 
able to  enter  where  all  is  pure  and  of  good  report. 
Loud  and  long  laugh  the  damned,  and  loud  and  long 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  139 

laugh  they.    Oh,  that  war  would  last  forever!    **War, 
war,  glorious  war!*'  . 

TEN  o'clock  the  NIGHT  AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  on  the  battlefield  the  night  after  the 
battle.  Sixty  thousand  men  dead  and  wounded — fath- 
ers, husbands,  sons,  brothers,  lovers.  Hospital  corps 
searching  for  the  wounded,  thieves  searching  for  gold, 
brooks  choked  with  those  who  have  crawled  there  to 
slake  their  battle-thirst,  earth  soaked  with  blood,  the  air 
aquiver  with  the  agonized  moanings  of  men  and  horses. 
Death,  mutilation,  distortion,  disfigurement — man's 
handiwork,  war's  handiwork,  civilization's  masterpiece. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  two  hundred  thousand  homes  the 
night  after  the  battle.  The  day's  work  is  done.  Eter- 
nity cannot  undo  it.  Who  is  living?  Who  dead?  Who 
will  return?  What  homes  are  broken  forever?  Which 
wives  husbandless?  Which  parents  sonless?  Who, 
what,  which — oh,  when  will  they  know?  But  they  must 
wait,  all  must  wait :  waiting,  that  is  their  share  in  red, 
in  glorious  war.    And  some  must  wait  forever. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  heaven  the  night  after  the  battle. 
There  are  joyful  reunions  in  that  realm  of  day;  wives 
have  received  their  husbands  and  parents  their  children. 
The  battle  has  done  this  for  some.  But  there  are  others 
there :  they,  too,  have  been  waiting  at  the  gates  all  day. 
They  have  been  waiting  years  for  the  arrival  of  loved 
faces;  they  have  seen  those  loved  faces  today — caught 
a  glimpse  of  them;  they  were  in  the  procession  that 
passed  hence.  Their  waiting  is  now  over — nay,  rather, 
will  never  end. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  in  hell  the  night  after  the  battle.  New 
faces  are  there,  thousands  of  them.  They  awake,  they 
look  about  them,  they  understand. 

Cover  thine  eyes;  let  the  curtain  fall. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

AND  THE  LAST  TRUMP  SOUNDED. 

It  was  the  resurrection  morn.  The  Lord  himself  had 
descended  from  heaven  with  a  shout,  with  the  voice  of 
the  archangel,  and  the  last  trump  had  sounded. 

The  dead  were  everywhere  rising.  Whole  families 
were  rising  together,  hand  in  hand,  where  they  had 
been  sleeping  together  for  hundreds  and  thousands  of 
years.  There  were  reunions  in  little  country  cemeteries, 
in  vast  city  cemeteries,  reunions  everywhere.  The  air 
was  vibrant,  vocal,  athrill,  with  songs  of  joy  and  tri- 
umph. 

There  was  one  very  noticeable  feature  of  the  scene. 
Those  killed  in  battle  were  raised  last  as  a  final  manifes- 
tation of  heaven  *s  disapproval  of  fratricidal  strife — and 
all  war  is  fratricidal  strife. 

There  were  joyful  scenes  to  be  witnessed  that  day, 
there  were  pathetic  scenes  to  be  witnessed  that  day.  But 
the  most  pathetic  of  all  were  not  those  in  the  world's 
cemeteries,  whether  of  city  or  countryside.  The  most 
pathetic  of  all  was  the  sight  of  women  who  had  been 
sleeping  alone  in  the  cold  ground  for  uncounted  cen- 
turies, mothers  leadng  little  children  by  the  hand, 
searching  among  the  dead  on  the  world's  thousands  of 
battlefields.  Wherever  a  battle  had  been  fought  in  all 
the  ages  of  time,  there  on  that  battlefield  you  could  see 
the  same  sight  on  this  resurrection  morn  when  the  last 
trump  sound(d:  women  in  black,  with  sad,  pale  faces, 
leading  their  little  ch'ldren,  hunting  amcng  the  un- 
known  dead   for   husband   and   father    buried  in  the 

140 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  141 

trenches  like  slaughtered  curs.  Yes,  hunting  among 
the  unknown  dead  for  husbands  and  fathers.  "Un- 
known dead'*?  Husbands  and  fathers  ** unknown"? 
God  save  the  mark!  Whose  handiwork  has  so  defaced 
God's  handiwork  that  husband  and  father  is  *' un- 
known ' '  ? 

Man's  handiwork,  War's  handiwork,  glorious  War's! 
And  so  the  resurrection  morn  itself  was  shadowed  and 
shrouded  by  War's  black  pall. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE  DOGS  OF  WAR. 

I  SEEMED  to  be  taking  a  long,  solitary  walk.  I  had 
entered  a  narrow  valley,  lying  between  two  lofty  hill 
ranges.  Communing  with  my  own  thoughts,  I  was  lit- 
tle heeding  any  outward  sights  or  sounds,  when  sud- 
denly the  fierce  baying  of  distant  dogs  smote  my  ears. 
The  dissonant  uproar  jarred  me  out  of  my  musings  and 
I  looked  about  somewhat  startled  as  does  a  man  who 
hears  the  pursuing  howl  of  timber  wolves  which  may  be 
on  his  own  trail.  A  half  mile  up  the  valley  I  perceived 
a  group  of  men  who  were  considerably  excited,  and 
thence  proceeded  the  barking  of  the  dogs  which  I  now 
heard  continuously. 

I  couldn^t  make  out  who  the  men  were  nor  what  the 
commotion  was  about,  so  I  turned  my  steps  in  that  di- 
rection and  hastened  rapidly  toward  the  scene.  I  sus- 
pected there  was  a  dog  fight  on  back  here  in  the  hills 
where  officers  of  the  law  would  not  be  likely  to  inter- 
fere. And  say  what  you  will  about  the  cruelty  of  it, 
few  men  will  look  the  other  way  when  a  fight  is  taking 
place  right  under  their  noses. 

As  I  drew  nearer  the  deafening  uproar  grew  louder, 
men  shouting  to  each  other,  and  to  the  dogs  which  were 
baying  ever  more  fiercely.  Soon  I  began  to  recognize 
familiar  forms  and  faces — those  of  world-renowned 
statesmen. 

A  Prime  Minister  was  holding  in  leash  a  monstrous 
Great  Dane,  which    was  bloodthirstily    howling  as  he 

142 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  143 

stood  on  his  hind  legs  frantically  pawing  the  air,  eyes 
bulging  and  tongue  protruding.  He  was  a  horrible 
specimen  of  power  and  ferocity.  Opposite  was  another 
famous  statesman  holding  in  leash  a  slavering  Mastiff, 
which  was  in  much  the  same  attitude  as  the  Great 
Dane.  I  loitered  about  determined  to  see  what  would 
come  of  it  all. 

The  master  of  the  Great  Dane  was  holding  back 
somewhat  and  his  antagonist  seemed  desirous  of  avoid- 
ing a  fight  altogether,  though  he  showed  no  particular 
signs  of  fear  and  his  dog  showed  none  whatever.  But  a 
noble  rabble  of  statesmen  kept  whispering  in  the  ears 
of  those  who  held  the  dogs,  "Let  'em  go,  let  'em  go!" 
And  back  of  these  and  all  about  was  a  swarm  of  buzzing 
men  whom  I  did  not  know,  but  I  learned  by  inquiry  that 
they  were  editors  and  reporters ;  and  most  of  these  were 
shouting  till  red  in  the  face — *  *  Sick  'em !  Sick  'em !  Sick 
'em!" 

A  little  distance  away  in  another  group  stood  some 
interested  spectators  of  the  scene — ^the  rulers  and  states- 
men of  the  great  Christian  nations  of  the  earth.  These 
kept  whispering  and  snickering  and  nudging  each  other 
as  the  game  went  on.  Finally  a  leash  was  slipped  and 
with  a  "crimson  roar"  the  Great  Dane  hurled  himself 
at  the  Mastiff's  throat.  At  the  same  moment  the  latter 
was  unchained  and  rose  to  meet  the  murderous  on- 
slaught. 

Then  a  wondrous  transformation  took  place  in  that 
scene,  which  I  could  in  no  wise  account  for.  The  dogs 
had  vanished  and  in  their  places  were  two  long  lines  of 
men  rushing  at  each  other  with  deadly  intent,  yelling 
like  demons,  flourishing  swords  and  firing  guns. 

I  looked  into  the  faces  of  these  men — were  they  in- 


144  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

deed  men  or  were  they  demons  incarnate?  Yes,  they 
were  men:  they  were  members  of  homes;  they  were 
sons,  brothers,  husbands,  fathers,  levers.  How  do  I 
Imow?  Because  I  saw  marks  on  the  faces  of  each — the 
marks  of  the  burn^'ng  farewell  kisses  of  women  and  lit- 
tle children.  I  saw  drops  of  water  on  their  warrior 
garb — tears  of  women,  not  yet  dry. 

Spellbound,  horrified,  I  watched  to  see  what  would 
happen.  Guns  crashed,  men  yelled  in  a^ony,  blood 
spurted.  Arousinsj  myself  from  my  dazed  horror  I 
grabbed  a  soldier  near  me  and  cried  out:  **For  God*s 
sake.  stoD,  man!  Don't  you  know  what  you  are  doing? 
YouVe  killed  a  man,  killed  a  man,  I  say!** 

** That's  my  business,'*  he  grimly  replied. 

**Put  whv  did  you  do  it?  Did  you  hate  him?  Has 
he  wronged  you?" 

**Fate  him?  Wronged  me?  Why,  man  I  don't  have 
any  idea  who  he  is  nor  what  he  has  done.  Probably  he 
hasn't  done  anj^hing.  But  didn't  you  see  those  valor- 
ous politicians  whisperinor  together?  And  didn't  you 
hear  the  crowds  yelling,  *'Sick  'em,  sick  'em?" 

**Yes,  I  did!" 

'*Well,  that's  what  we're  here  for!  That's  what 
we've  got  to  do — Sick  'em." 

Another  crash  of  snins.  I  turned  from  the  sickening 
sight.  Then,  lo!  behind  each  line  of  soldiers,  only  a 
few  feet  away.  I  saw  a  long  row  of  women  of  all  ages, 
and  little  children,  all  chained  fast  to  stakes  driven 
deep  in  the  srround.  These  women  were  praying,  weep- 
ine  and  wringine  their  hands.  The  children,  pale  with 
terror,  were  crying  out  in  mortal  anguish  and  clinging 
to  the  skirts  of  the  women. 

At  the  second   discharge  of  guns  I  saw  that  every 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  145 

bullet  which  went  through  a  soldier's  heart  likewise 
went  through  the  hearts  of  three  women.  I  saw  that 
these  same  bullets  were  mutilating  the  children,  and 
again  I  saw  blood  spurt.  I  heard  screams,  yes,  screams. 
Say,  you  never  heard  a  scream,  my  friend.  I  never  did 
before. 

Again  I  turned  to  the  soldiers  near  me  and  fairly 
yelled:  ** For  God's  sake,  stop!  Can't  you  see?  You 
are  shooting  women  and  children!'' 

** Can't  help  it  if  we  are.  Don't  you  hear  those  voices 
still  shouting,  'Sick  'em,  sick    'em'?  " 

I  was  powerless.  I  turned  to  flee  and  escape  from 
the  heart-breaking  spectacle. 

I  soon  passed  beyond  the  line  of  shrieking  women  and 
children,  and  at  once  came  upon  a  line  of  farmers  and 
small  tradesmen  at  their  toil  and  business.  Among 
these  I  saw  a  lot  of  mounted  men,  ruthless  freebooters, 
riding  up  and  down  and  robbing  the  laborers  of  the 
fruits  of  their  toil.  Infuriated  I  sprang  to  the  defense 
of  one  poor  old  farmer  and  his  wife  who  were  being 
held  up  and  robbed  by  one  of  the  horsemen.  No  sooner 
did  I  begin  to  interfere  than  the  robber  smote  me  over 
the  head  with  the  flat  of  his  sword  and  I  was  felled  to 
earth.  While  writhing  there  in  my  pain  he  shouted 
down  at  me,  fairly  choked  with  fury:  **I  will  teach 
you  to  interfere  with  the  majesty  of  the  law!  Our 
fighting  dogs  must  be  fed." 

I  then  rose  and  rushed  frantically  about  on  the  wet 
and  slippery  ground,  trying  to  find  those  noble  Chris- 
tian statesmen  who  had  started  the  fight,  and  see  if  I 
couldn't  induce  them  to  call  off  their  dogs.  But  I 
couldn't  discover  one  of  them  on  that  blood-soaked 
field.    Finally  above  the  roar  and  snarl  of  the  fight  I 


146  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

heard  in  thundering  tones  those  never-ceasing  words, 
**Sick  *em,  sick  *em!*'  I  lifted  up  my  eyes  and  on  the 
highest  ridge  of  a  far-distant  hill  I  descried  a  few  men. 
I  hastened  thither  and  found  on  that  pinnacle,  far  out 
of  range  of  rifle  and  cannon  shot,  the  very  men  I  was 
seeking,  and  each  had  an  enormous  megaphone,  and 
into  these  they  were  bawling  with  red  faces:  **Sick 
*em,  sick  'em,  sick  'em!" 

So  up  on  the  mountain  top,  safe  and  secure,  re- 
nowned statesmen  were  bellowing,  **Sick  *em,  sick 
'em!'*  while  down  in  the  valley  sons  and  fathers  and 
brothers  were  killing  each  other;  and  tethered  behind 
these  were  defenseless  women  and  children,  while  bul- 
lets were  boring  through  their  hearts  and  red  blood 
flowing  out. 

"Sick  'em!  Sick  'em!" 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

AN  UNDISCOVERED  COUNTRT. 

As  I  ponder  the  glories  of  war,  I  often  have  a  vision 
of  an  undiscovered  country,  a  realm  of  gloom  in  a  cor- 
ner of  space  so  remote  that  God  has  forgotten  it.  And 
no  eye  in  all  heaven  is  keen  enough  of  sight  to  discern  it. 

Its  oceans  are  the  blood  of  those  wounded  and  slain 
in  war  since  time  began.  Its  rivers  are  the  tears  shed 
since  time  began  because  of  the  miseries  of  war.  On 
its  rivers  of  tears  and  oceans  of  blood  float  all  the  naval 
craft  used  in  war  since  time  began.  There  are  moun- 
tains in  that  realm  of  woe — mountains  made  out  of  the 
heaped-up  instruments  of  death  used  in  war,  mountains 
of  the  piled-up  property  destroyed  in  war,  mountains  of 
the  money  wasted  in  preparing  for  war  and  in  carrying 
it  on. 

There  are  clouds  in  that  land,  clouds  that  never  leave 
nor  pass  away.  All  the  smoke  of  burning  homes  and 
burning  cities  set  on  fire  by  War's  red  hand,  all  this 
smoke  has  found  its  way  thither,  and  there  it  remains 
forever,  unchanged  and  undiminished. 

No  sun  ever  shines  there,  no  moon  and  no  stars.  The 
only  light  which  gleams  in  that  murky  gloom  is  the  red 
light  of  war.  The  flash  of  every  gun  has  found  its  way 
thither;  the  flame  of  every  cannon  has  found  its  way 
thither;  the  blaze  of  every  dwelling  and  the  conflagra- 
tion of  every  city  have  found  their  way  thither;  and 
there  all  these  remain  forever,  unchanged  and  undi- 
minished. 

147 


148  AND   THIS   IS  WAR 

Every  sound  of  every  battlefield  since  time  began  has 
found  its  way  thither,  and  there  these  sounds  go  on  for- 
ever, unchanged  and  undiminished.  All  the  shouting, 
all  the  clash  of  ancient  armor,  all  the  roar  of  cannon, 
all  the  shrieks  of  the  wounded,  all  the  groanings  of  dy- 
ing men  and  dying  horses,  all  the  cursing  and  swearing, 
all  these  sounds  have  found  their  way  thither,  and 
there  they  go  on  forever,  unchanged  and  undiminished. 
So  also  have  aU  the  sounds  of  grief  and  lamentations  of 
all  the  homes  made  wretched  by  war  in  all  time  found 
their  way  thither,  and  there  they  go  on  forever,  un- 
changed and  undiminished. 

And  who  are  the  inhabitants  of  this  undiscovered 
country,  this  realm  of  gloom  in  a  corner  of  space  so  re- 
mote that  God  has  forgotten  it?  The  inhabitants  of 
that  land  are  all  those  who  have  been  guilty  in  any  way 
of  the  crime  of  bringing  on  war,  and  all  those  guilty 
of  any  of  the  crimes  that  attend  the  carrying  on  of 
war — all  these  are  there,  and  none  others ;  and  there  all 
these  will  remain  forever. 

The  robber  of  the  wounded  and  the  slain  the  night 
after  the  battle  is  there.  He  is  condemned  to  crawl 
over  the  rotting  bodies  of  the  dead  forever,  dragging 
his  plunder  behind  him  by  a  rope  about  his  neck. 

All  dishonest  contractors  who  have  furnished  armies 
with  supplies  of  any  kind  since  time  began  are  there: 
and  there  they  will  remain  forever.  They  are  seated 
at  a  table  in  the  banqueting  hall  of  that  realm  of 
shadows.  All  the  plate  on  that  groaning  table  is  solid 
gold.  The  table  is  piled  high  with  costliest  viands.  But 
adown  the  middle  of  that  table,  from  end  to  end,  is  a 
continuous  row  of  corpses,  feet  to  head — corpses  of 
those  who   in  war  died  the   victims  of  dishonest  con- 


AND  THIS  IS  WAR  149 

tracts ;  and  the  open,  glassy,  unseeing  eyes  of  the  dead 
are  staring  into  the  eyes  of  the  would-be  feasters.  These 
latter  have  a  look  of  frozen  horror  on  their  faces ;  they 
try  to  fly  from  that  banqueting  hall,  but  they  do  not  do 
so — they  cannot.  They  are  chained  there,  and  there 
they  remain  forever. 

All  kings,  emperors,  rulers,  statesmen,  politicians  who 
have  unjustly  brought  on  war  are  there ;  and  there  they 
remain  forever. 

These  men  have  delighted  in  military  parades  and  re- 
views when  on  earth.  They  have  them  there,  four  a 
week.  Every  Sunday  they  stand  in  line — stand,  not  sit, 
not  ride.  They  stand  in  line,  and  there  pass  before 
them  all  the  women  made  widows  by  war  since  time  be- 
gan, all  the  orphans  made  fatherless  by  war,  all  the 
maidens  made  maidens  forever  by  war.  All  these  pass 
by  that  reviewing  host  and  taunt  them  as  they  will,  and 
then  they  pass  thence.  On  the  following  Sunday  the 
same  review  is  held  and  so  on  forever. 

On  Monday  that  same  line  of  reviewers  must  take 
their  weary  positions  again,  and  there  pass  before  them 
all  those  wounded  and  mutilated  and  diseased  by  war 
since  time  began;  and  these  taunt  them  as  they  will, 
and  then  return  whence  they  came,  to  heaven  or  hell  as 
the  case  may  be,  and  there  remain  till  the  next  Monday ; 
and  so  on  forever. 

On  Tuesday  that  reviewing  host  must  be  in  line  again, 
and  there  passes  before  them  the  procession  of  all  those 
who  have  gone  to  hell  from  battlefields  since  time  be- 
gan; and  these  taunt  them  as  they  will,  and  then  go 
back  to  their  abiding  place  till  the  following  Tuesday; 
and  so  on  forever. 

On  Wednesday  that  reviewing  host  is  once  more  in 


150  AND  THIS  IS  WAR 

line,  and  there  passes  before  them  the  procession  of  all 
those  killed  in  war  since  time  began;  and  these  taunt 
them  as  they  will.  And  beside  each  dead  man  in  this 
endless  procession  there  stalks  the  ghost  of  his  unlived 
years — the  ghost  of  his  untasted  pleasures,  the  ghost  of 
his  unachieved  successes,  of  his  unrealized  hopes,  of  his 
unrendered  services  to  man  and  his  Maker.  And  if  it 
be  a  dead  boy  that  passes  by  those  reviewers,  there 
stalks  by  his  side  other  ghosts — the  ghost  of  his  unbuilt 
home,  the  ghost  of  his  unwedded  bride,  and  of  his  un- 
born children.  And  these  dead  men  and  their  ghosts 
taunt  those  reviewers  as  they  will;  and  then  the  dead 
pass  back  to  their  abiding  places,  to  heaven  or  hell  as 
the  case  may  be,  till  the  following  Wednesday;  and  so 
on  forever.  .  .  .  Yes,  the  dead  pass — ^but  the  ghosts  re- 
main behind  in  that  realm  of  doom,  remain  behind  to 
keep  the  reviewers  perpetual  company. 

On  Thursdays,  Fridays,  and  Saturdays,  those  review- 
ers have  another  task  to  perform;  they  must  crawl  over 
the  world  *s  battlefields  which  have  all  found  their  way 
thither,  and  take  the  census  of  the  slain.  And  the  last 
three  days  of  the  following  week  they  have  to  perform 
their  labor  all  over  again ;  and  so  on  forever. 

There  is  no  sleep  in  that  undiscovered  country,  in 
that  realm  of  gloom  in  a  comer  of  space  so  remote  that 
God  has  forgotten  it.  The  homeless  and  wandering 
ghosts  of  the  unlived  years  of  the  slain  are  chanting  a 
dirge  day  and  night,  a  dirge  of  such  unrelieved  pathos 
that  frightened,  sad-eyed  sleep  has  fled  those  shades 
forever. 

Yes,  it  is  a  strange  land — a  strange,  strange  land. 

The  Ein). 


0 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
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OVERDUE. 


MAR   211935 


ncf- 


,JUN^->'69-lOPM 


iB3s 


mv    16  1939 


JUN    JB  1344 


2h 


Jan  JUL* -t 


RECEIVbiO 


LOAN   DHPT. 


FEB  2    1969    2 


^ 


"5:^ 


*  ,  f. — &  \  r^'  " 


:^-^ 


■j^ 


TOCa- 


mniD— JM 


5-71-«ftMrT 

LD  21-100m-8,'34 


YB  06357 


V^o9  (f^-f' 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


